Rescue
by Inhoe Publishing
Summary: They should have arrived sooner. It had all added up to a refusal to allow Starfleet to attempt a retrieval of Kirk. Intergalactic incident they had cited, a violation of the Prime Directive. Spock was breaking a dozen Starfleet orders by being here. Spock risk his life and career to rescue Kirk from a mission gone wrong. But can Kirk be saved?
1. Chapter 1

Salvage

Salvage: to rescue or save, especially from wreckage or ruin

The transporter barely finished processing, the tingle and dizziness lingering and distorting Spock's vision, when he saw what he had come for. The single guard next to him remained frozen in transport for a few seconds longer. Spock moved long before the guard gasped.

A few steps from where they'd materialized, Jim Kirk lay stretched out on the surface below them like a sacrificial offering. He was naked, covered in blood, and unmoving. Though the area was dark, Spock could see what the Boraiths had done to Kirk in the past two weeks while he'd been captive. A familiar surge of rage coiled in his belly. He tasted it in the back of his throat, tightening the muscles along his jaw. Vulcan discipline was never out of reach. Not since that moment on the bridge, only months earlier when his father's command had stopped him from killing the man he'd now come to save. He'd spent months deepening his training, anchoring himself to the ancient disciplines and banishing his human half as much as possible. But that seemed a lifetime ago as he felt anger rise. His jaw remained locked as he tore his gaze away from Kirk and quickly scanned the area. The ship's scanners had indicated they were alone. But for how long, he was not certain. They had to move fast.

"Sir?" Kranz, the guard said, unsure.

Emotion was radiating off Kranz, but Spock didn't have time to acknowledge. He took a step forward and dropped to his knees, pressing his fingers to the side of Kirk's neck. A pulse – faint and fast. The skin was hot to his touch, and Kirk didn't so much as flinch. His eyes were closed – one red and swollen shut. Cracked lips and sunken cheeks were evidence of his suffering, but not as much as the rest of his body. His arms were outstretched and marred with deep cuts. Thick layers of dried blood caked the pale skin. Along his torso was strategic cuts and puncture wounds, some older and already healing, others showing the tell-tale signs of infection.

Kranz, a drawn phaser in one hand, walked around to the other side of Kirk while Spock reached for his communicator.

"Enterprise."

"_Scott here. Did you find him?"_

"Affirmative. We will need medical assistance."

"_Standing by. I'll get a lock on your coordinates."_

Spock studied the rest of Kirk. His chest barely moved, and Spock's acute Vulcan hearing detected a pervasive rattle in his captain's lungs. They should have arrived sooner. Bureaucracy had delayed them – special requests, council meetings, the futile maneuvering through ambassadorial channels. It had all added up to a refusal to allow Starfleet to attempt a retrieval of Kirk. Intergalactic incident they had cited, a violation of the Prime Directive. Spock was breaking a dozen Starfleet orders by being here.

Kranz had also dropped to his knees, nervous and jittery. If they were discovered by the Boraiths, they would join Kirk as a captive. "Sir, he's attached."

Spock followed Kranz's gaze to Kirk's hand. The floor beneath them was smooth gray metal, and Spock saw now that Kirk's outstretched arms had been fastened into place by a single, thick bolt through the center of each palm.

"_Mr. Spock,"_ Scott's voice echoed through the air. _"We cannot transport. We're getting an error in our readings on the Captain. He's connected to some type of alloy. Can you move him?"_

"Negative, Mr. Scott. He is attached the floor. Can you extract him for transport?"

Pause.

"_That'll be dangerous. We might only get part of him."_

"Time is of essence, Mr. Scott."

"_Stand by."_

Spock looked at the guard. "Can we free him?"

Kranz had been studying the bolt and shook his head. "I'm not sure. It's like its one piece."

Spock examined Kirk's hand and tried to see beneath the bloody flesh, carefully moving stiff fingers. There was little give. The bolt had secured him tightly to the flooring. The very thing that made the planet of interest to the Federation – and why _Enterprise_ had been ordered to explore – was the mineral elements. The indigenous people had found a way to manipulate the elements into material that was almost indestructible.

"Can we use our phasers?" Kranz asked.

Impossible without severing Kirk's hand. And even if they could narrow the beam, there was no guarantee phasers would cut the strange material. Spock reexamined Kirk, ensuring that no other fasteners existed. If they had bolted Kirk's hands, would they have bolted him elsewhere? He slid his hands beneath Kirk's back and felt the open wounds that ran along the spine. But no attachments.

Kirk moaned and stirred. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His eye fluttered. The brilliant blue iris was only a slit. Spock leaned in.

* * *

He'd drifted off, slipping into the blissful darkness where he was free of pain. He couldn't remember if he'd slipped away with _him_ \- his tormentor - near as pulses of pain ripped through him, or if _he_ had finished with Kirk leaving him alone as was often done. The sessions were getting shorter, or maybe he was remembering less. Were they getting tired of him? It had seemed, in the beginning, that they wanted something of him. Now it was as though he were entertainment.

What is done with a prisoner no one wants?

He rested in the silent darkness, just barely conscious. He'd learned in the past few days to stay beneath the surface where the pain was numbed. Not that he could feel much of his body. It throbbed in a way that felt almost like his heartbeat, so that he couldn't distinguish one pain from another, until the whole of him was a single bone-deep ache. He'd forced his breathing to slow, taking shallow breaths that disrupted his broken ribs as little as possible and allowed the pain to linger in the background. It wasn't so bad if he didn't move.

Searing pain along his back jerked him into consciousness. He moaned, despite himself. It's what _he_ wanted, what _he_ worked so hard to get Kirk to do. He felt someone close. _He_ liked to be close, liked to lick the blood off Kirk with _his_ warm, thin tongue. Sometimes _he'd_ feast on Kirk that way and Kirk would see _his_ animal lust, strutting out hard beneath the furry belly.

Fuck _him_.

Kirk struggled to open his eye. It was too late to pretend. _He_ knew Kirk was awake. _He_ always knew. Kirk couldn't see much. His one uninjured eye saw only blurry images. Not even. A watery grayscale landscape. Still he blinked and tried to focus, because, even though he was pinned to the surface, he'd be damned if he was going to die with a whimper. He thought he heard voices, but his hearing wasn't so good anymore, either, so maybe it wasn't voices. Maybe it was _them_. Their language was more like dissonant screeches and off-key chatters, like a murder of crows.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. A murder of crows. How appropriate.

The voices – no voice – was soft. His vision focused some and he could just distinguish the familiar features of someone he thought he'd never see.

Spock.

No, that couldn't be right. Spock was on the _Enterprise_ and _Enterprise _had left. Hadn't they? It was just his mind playing that game again, the game of him being free.

His back was on fire, the nerves ignited, and he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Think, he commanded himself. Academy training. Every command-track cadet had been through it – how to respond to torture. Resist don't antagonize. Gather all the information you can, you still have a job to do. It was fucking laughable now. A cough grew deep in his chest, wet and thick.

Hold it together, Kirk. Don't give in. The cough would make things worse. But the urge to cough persisted, and his body surrendered. His ribs grated and burned as the weak coughs racked him, leaving him breathless and with a familiar taste of blood at the back of his throat. It was only a matter of time now. He'd known he'd been bleeding for a while, but he kept taking one breath after another.

"_Are you fucking stupid, Kirk?" It was his drill sergeant, Owens, standing four inches from his face and expelling sour breath and saliva onto him. "No one told you to move."_

_Kirk had stood, feeling hamstrung, during the heavy-fire drill. Salvos were streaming in, exploding on the open field where Kirk and his small team had been assigned. But men were down and Kirk had made a run for one of them and dragged him behind the line. His fellow cadets called him a hero. His superiors called him dangerous. Owens called him a showoff._

A hand to his cheek was tender and warmer than he expected. _His_ touch was cold and cruel. What was this new game?

Muffled sounds. He couldn't make out the words. Something like don't or dare, but he couldn't be sure. He wanted to move away from the touch, but he couldn't get his body to cooperate, so he retreated into the shadows of his mind like a wounded animal gone to ground to lick its wounds. It would have been easier if he'd died, but like Owens had said, he was fucking stupid.

Something touched his mind – a cool, peaceful presence – and all the confusion and distorted thoughts cleared away for a moment. It was like coming out a noisy, crowded room into an empty one. The pain dulled and for the first time in days he could think clearly. In the sudden silence, he heard a voice.

"_You are safe."_

The words made him want to laugh. Maybe he did. He felt a kind of surprise within the other. Silence. And then one word.

"_Jim."_

In that instant he knew who had spoken and whose hand was on his cheek.

Spock. With that realization came a different kind of fear. _Enterprise_ was back and that meant danger for his crew.

"_Be at peace. The ship is safe."_

The presence retreated and the noise – and pain – within him returned, redoubled. He tried to focus and saw the blurry outline of a blue uniform. Shit. No hallucination. Spock had found him. Instead of relief, he was filled with dread. This was exactly what the Boraiths wanted.

* * *

"What in blue-bloody hell is taking so long?" McCoy demanded.

Scott looked up from his console with a weary expression. "We're working as fast as we can, Doctor."

Every muscle in McCoy's body was taut and the small transporter room had become claustrophobic over the past hours. He'd waited here with Spock to get a clear signal on Jim's exact location, then they'd waited for Jim to be alone, and now that they'd found him ….

McCoy looked at the time. Ten minutes. Spock had said it would take two. The entire rescue mission, planned out by the command crew in secrecy, was predicated on time.

"_Get in and get out," Scott said, looking down at the crude diagram._

_Sulu nodded. "The scans show a lot of activity around him, but last night he was alone for a few hours."_

"_That's our vindow!" Chekov said._

_Spock remained silent and unobtrusive. He'd argued for Kirk's release through bureaucratic channels for weeks until finally he had assembled the command team to plan Kirk's rescue – without Starfleet approval. Without even a whiff of official sanction to justify their intentions, they'd put their plan under intense scrutiny, carefully detailing each move, before taking action. But it would only be Spock and one guard who would transport down._

"_Like hell, you're going down there without me," McCoy said. "Jim maybe hurt."_

"_More than likely he is, Doctor, but any medical attention he needs will have to wait until his return to the ship."_

_McCoy spent the next hour arguing, but Spock's mind was made up and there was nothing McCoy could do. Still, he had stayed with Spock, following his every move, pacing the crowded transporter room until Spock had stepped up on the transporter pad and uttered the words that would free Jim: Energize._

Eleven minutes.

Jim was the only human they had been able to locate on the planet. That meant the rest of the original landing party was dead. But the damned Boraiths had kept Jim alive. He was valuable to them alive.

That was the single thought McCoy clung to, his one crumb of comfort, in the long nightmare. A dead hostage was no good. That also meant that Jim had likely been tortured. The Boraiths had made it clear from the first moment that they were aggressive and hostile to outsiders. They'd attacked the landing party shortly after the group had materialized on the planet. Rainier had been killed and Kirk had ordered an emergency beam out but it was already too late. Everything went south, and the landing party had disappeared into the hands of the Boraith. McCoy kept seeing the image of Rainier's body on the transporter pad, soaked in blood, his head almost severed from the deep cut along his throat. If they had done that to Rainier, what had they done to the others? To Jim? But McCoy refused to go very far down that path. He would deal with situation, whatever it proved to be, once Kirk was on board.

"_Scott,"_ Sulu's voice from the bridge filled the room. _"They're moving."_

Scott frowned. "Who's moving?"

"_The Boraith. They're moving toward the Captain."_

"Give them something else to do. We need more time."

"_Aye, aye."_

McCoy slapped his hands on the transporter console. "Just beam him up!"

"I can't, Doctor! It's not like hauling in a lot of fish."

Chekov, who had been working calculations on the wall display, spoke up. "I got it! Ve can narrow the field, isolate the material and feed it back to the transporter."

"Laddie, that's never been done before. We could scramble him rather than transport him."

The console communicator beeped. It was Spock.

Scott wasted no time. "Mr. Spock, you're about to get company."

"_I am aware, Mr. Scott. What is your status?"_

Scott locked gazes with Chekov. They quickly shared the solution with Spock. It required transporting Kirk separately.

"_We have few options," Spock said. _

"This could kill him," McCoy warned.

"_If he stays here, he will certainly die."_

Scott nodded to Chekov, who quickly programed the transporter.

Twelve minutes.

McCoy looked at his medical team who stood waiting in the corner with thee empty gurney. He'd brought everything he could think of if a full resuscitation was needed. The rest – fluids, blood transfusion, life-support – would have to wait until they reached Sickbay. _Enterprise_ had the best medical technology in the Fleet. M'Benga was standing by in a surgical suite. The corridors had been cleared and the turbo-lifts locked. Nothing would delay them. They just needed to get Jim on board.

Energize! McCoy wanted to scream, even though he knew it could mean Kirk's death. At least his friend would be back home and not left to be dismembered on an alien planet. His hands tightened on the medical scanner as if it were a lifeline, and he could taste both fear and frustration in the back of his throat.

Scott nodded at Chekov. They were ready. But Scott suddenly hesitated, his fingers still on the controls.

* * *

Vulcan hearing was superior to most known species. Spock heard the Boraiths chatter at the far end of the corridor and knew their time was up. He looked down at Kirk. The single blue iris stared at him, unfocused. The fever and blood loss had taken its toll on the normally vibrant young man.

"That kid doesn't know how to quit," McCoy had said to him after he'd expelled Kirk from the ship for insubordination.

In Spock's brief history with Kirk, it was the one fact he knew to be consistent about the captain.

The blond hair was matted with blood and sweat, and he was barely recognizable as the arrogant, self-confident captain who commanded the best ship in the Fleet. And yet, as Spock had touched his mind, the Vulcan knew the spirit and intelligence and drive that were uniquely Kirk's were all still intact. It was, Spock surmised, what had kept his captain alive this long.

"I captain cannot cheat death," he'd told Kirk. But from what Spock had seen in Kirk's mind, the young captain had.

He wanted to reassure Kirk. McCoy would instinctively know what to say, how to comfort Kirk in his pain. But Spock had no practice in such matters and so could only wait for the transporter to take Kirk.

Kranz maintained his firing stance, a white-knuckled, unwavering grip on the phaser in his hand, which he had pointed at the door. They were alone for now. There was nothing to shoot. But that status was about to change. It took all Spock's discipline to shield from the emotions that filled the chamber.

"_For Christ's sake, beam him up before it's too late!"_ McCoy's voice came through the communicator.

The Boraiths were getting closer.

Spock raised the communicator to his lips. Just as he opened his mouth, the transporter encircled Kirk.

* * *

McCoy held his breath and stared at the transporter pad as the transparent image of Jim flickered in the beam. The faint silhouette of a prone, outstretched body ghosted the pad. But the image was not quite complete. Jim's hands were missing. The pit of McCoy's stomach turned to a hard block of stone.

_It will be okay. It will be okay._ The mantra played over and over as he stared at the missing hands.

"Reverse!" Scott shouted.

The image disappeared again, and McCoy took a shuttering breath and felt the blood drain from his face.

In seconds, the transporter whined as it tried to re-materialize the mass in its beam. The ghost image returned – complete with hands – flickered twice, and finally materialized, complete, on the pad.

"Got him!" Chekov shouted.

Jim's body lay motionless on the platform. McCoy was already moving even before the first odor of blood and infection hit him. His eyes first went to Jim's hands and quickly registered the five-centimeter hole punched in the center of each palm. He had to strongly repress a surge of bile. He forced himself to focus on Jim's face as a nurse read off the vitals from her tricorder.

"B/P is 72/40. Pulse is 168, weak and thready. Respirations are 28 and shallow. Temperature is 104.2 degrees." She looked at McCoy her eyes distraught, at odds with her calm, composed tone. "O2 saturation is 93.3%."

Only one of Jim's eyes was able to open and it was half-lidded and unfocused.

"Welcome back, kid. We've got you." McCoy said, putting a gentle hand to the side of the battered face. "Get some oxygen on him and let's move."

The gurney team hoovered close. He looked down at his own scanner which was lit with a dozen alerts: fever, dehydration, infection, bacterial invasion, internal bleeding, fractures, collapsed lung...

They needed to get him to Sickbay.

He moved aside and motioned to the orderlies. The gurney moved into position and they quickly slipped their hands beneath Jim and transferred him to the waiting gurney. He cried out – weak and guttural – at the movement, but he made no attempt to move on his own. His body was strangely motionless.

The orderlies whispered their apologies. One wiped away a tear once Jim was secured to the gurney.

"Let's move!" McCoy barked. "He's critical!"

As he rushed out of the room, he heard the transporter engage again. But he didn't have time to learn if Spock and Kranz had made it back alive.

His entire focus now was on trying to save Jim. He looked down at his friend as they raced down the corridors.

What the hell did they do to you, Jim?

Two weeks of worrying, running medical scenarios in his head, dreaming about this moment when Jim came home, and now suddenly he was filled with dread. Nothing had prepared him for this. For the first time, he wondered if he could save Jim?


	2. Chapter 2

**Recovery**

_Recovery: The action or process of regaining possession or control of something stole or lost_

The darkness had ended. Kirk didn't know how long he'd been cocooned in lightless space. For so long he'd lingered in the gray, floating just beneath the surface of consciousness but aware enough to know what was happening to his body, if only barely. Now his eyes opened abruptly, without the gentle, gradual awakening he'd grown accustomed to, and in an instant, the blissful oblivion had ceased, replaced with the overwhelming thrumming of pain.

_Fuck._

The dream-like state and the increasingly familiar numbness that had surrounded him was gone. Vanished, like morning mist on a hot day. It was as if someone, or something, had scraped his body raw from the inside out – igniting every nerve on fire. Maybe it was _him_. Something new _he'd_ tried, something to elicit whatever reaction _he'd_ wanted or to simply give _him_ pleasure. Kirk knew how _he_ liked to watch. His heartbeat increased, and it felt as though his heart was twice its normal size and pounding to escape, hammering frantically against the wall of his bruised chest.

_Stop. Don't let _him_ win._

But, not for the first time, his body betrayed him. Light filtered through his shuttered lashes. His eyelids were heavy, reluctant to open, and he couldn't focus, seeing only a blurry haze. Head throbbing from the persistent buzzing, he closed his eyes again and took inventory of his body, something he had done often since _he_ had bolted his hands to the floor.

It hurt to breathe, but that was nothing new. His back screamed in pain, a sharp gnawing that chewed relentlessly into his spine. More intense and pervasive than before. But then everything felt more intense, the pain like the shock from a loose, live wire – unpredictable and charged. What had _he_ done? Gotten bored playing with him? He couldn't remember and that was okay because his body was speaking loud and clear. He was broken. He tried to ignore the pain, withdraw to a place it could not reach him, and not worry too much over the damage his body was screaming about. So, he focused on taking one measured breath after another, because that inherent Kirk stubbornness, the trait which had enabled him to survive situations that would have crushed others, wouldn't let him give up.

Then, between one careful breath and the next, he realized something had changed: the air was different. Clean. And cool.

He worked at opening his eyes again, forcing his lids apart. The room was too bright. He hadn't seen light this brilliant in over a week, maybe longer. Tears flooded his stinging eyes and, unable to endure it, he rolled his head away, trying to escape the brightness, and realized there was softness beneath his body. Not the cold, metal flooring he'd been bolted to, but something yielding, cushiony … civilized.

Where was he?

"_Welcome home, kid." McCoy's gentle voice drifted into his memory._

In an instant, he remembered the dream – Spock's mind touch, a bold rescue, Bones' voice barking orders, a race through the corridors. It had been a wonderfully soothing dream, relief-filled and without pain. But now reality flooded back to him, and his pain spiked. The comfort of darkness was far away, and there was no option left but to endure it. The agony forced him closer to wakefulness.

He blinked, but focused sight remained elusive.

"Sir?" The voice was soft and feminine. The words were Standard.

He hadn't heard the Standard language since … since before …. The buzzing increased in volume. Distantly, there were more words, but he couldn't make them out. It was as if something was covering his ears, muffling the sounds and making them seem hollow and far away. That's the way it was _there_ – cold and dim, with strange, distant noises that usually meant _he_ was coming, and a body soon to be filled with unrelenting pain.

"Sir?"

It was the only word he could understand. But _he_ never used sir. _He_ didn't know Kirk was a captain. His capture had had nothing to do with his rank. He flexed his jaw, as if that might unclog his ears, return some clarity to his senses, but it only resulted in a stabbing pain in his ears that increased the buzzing to an intolerable cadence.

Another breath. And another.

The lights were too bright, and he wished he could see clearly. Somehow, not seeing made it worse. A warm hand suddenly rested on his bare shoulder, and he barely repressed the instinctive shudder.

"Jim?" The voice must be close, despite sounding faint and far away. He smelled the familiar, comforting scent of cedarwood.

Bones?

"Can you hear me, Jim?"

He blinked frantically, trying to focus his uncooperative eyes. Suddenly, in the blurry streamers of color, there was the shape of a face he recognized. He desperately wanted to see his friend. Illusions didn't talk, did they? The hand moved to his forehead and pressed gently in an all-too human gesture.

"Bones." He didn't know if the word made it past his raw throat. He couldn't hear his own voice.

"Yeah, kid. You made it back. You're home."

Home.

It hadn't been a dream. Relief nearly stole his breath completely

"Ship?" It was strange to feel his lips shape the word but not hear his voice.

"Yeah … you're on the ship. In Sickbay."

Why did Bones sound so odd? His head hurt, and it was difficult to concentrate. His body throbbed, but he still wanted to move. It had been so long since he'd been able to move, to reposition his body and relieve strained joints and muscles. But it was an almost impossible goal. His back screamed as he tried, sharp needles of pain tattooing his spine and digging deep into his hips with sharp claws. Moving his legs was not an option, but his arms …. He knew they were no longer pinned, outstretched, but they didn't seem to want to move either. Still, using all his remaining strength, he dragged his hand across his middle and reveled in the ability to do so, despite his hands feeling numb and heavy.

A strong set of fingers captured his wrist. "Try to keep still, Jim."

He didn't want to keep still, but the little movement had drained his strength completely and he couldn't move now if he tried.

"Go back to sleep. You're safe, Jim."

Where was Bones? His eyes were watering, leaking hot tears onto his cheeks, as the room began to dissolve into bright streamers of white. He could hear his friend's voice, but he wanted to see Bones' face. Why couldn't he focus? Was this all a hallucination brought on by fever and encroaching death? He swallowed hard, his raw throat aching. Everything hurt. If he closed his eyes and let the dark sweep him away, would he wake only to find this had all been a dream born of desperate longing?

"Go to sleep."

* * *

_Goddamn it, Jim, go to sleep,_ McCoy thought as he watched the waves of pain move like dark tides across his friend's battered face. The monitor above the bio-bed blinked red, in warning, as Jim's pain levels continued to increase, climbing steadily upward. He didn't want to dose Jim again with pain medication. Only three hours ago he'd been in surgery, up to his forearms in Jim's chest cavity, repairing some of the worst of the damage the Boraiths had inflicted. There hadn't been enough time to fix everything. Jim had been too weak, his condition too fragile, to risk doing more than the absolutely necessary repairs.

Another warning ping, and another red indicator on the monitor, drew his exhausted gaze, claiming his attention.

Jim's O2 sat had dropped.

"Let's get him on some oxygen," McCoy ordered the nurse. "Start with 2 liters but if that doesn't get him back into the green, increase it to 4 liters." He'd repaired Jim's punctured lung, but a drain was still in place to manage the excess fluid that had built up. He would intubate Jim if he had to in order to ensure he was getting adequate oxygen, but he wanted to avoid it, if possible, given the state of Jim's throat. Beneath the torture, had Jim screamed his throat raw?

"Yes, Doctor."

Straightening away from the bed, McCoy released his hold on Jim's shoulder. Jim's hands were heavily bandaged, looking like two thick, over-wrapped packages. The damage done had been extensive and he'd repaired muscles and tendons as much as he could, but the finer surgery would have to wait until Jim was stronger. Now, there was so much swelling and trauma that he doubted Jim could move his hands even if they weren't swaddled into immobility.

The nurse carefully fixed a light oxygen mask around Jim's bruised nose and mouth. McCoy knew his friend's visual acuity was impaired due to light sensitivity from the prolonged periods of darkness he had been subjected to, which prevented Jim from seeing clearly. He also knew, from the damage to Jim's ears, that his hearing wasn't much better. The vision would improve once the swelling resolved and his eyes adjusted to normal light levels, but Jim's hearing was another matter.

"Doctor?" It was Spock.

McCoy half-turned. The Vulcan had been hawking about Sickbay since they'd beamed Jim aboard. "You're becoming a permanent fixture, Spock."

Spock entered the small room, halting next to him, hands clasped behind his back. Jim's eyes had closed, and he appeared to have finally drifted off, although fine lines of pain still etched his face.

"How is he, doctor?"

"Stable. For now." McCoy stared at the bruising on Jim's face, the deeply swollen left eye and the other marks of abuse around his neck and jaw. He didn't need to ask what had happened. As a physician, he'd been given a detailed map of the torture Jim had been subjected to. Broken bones, puncture wounds, internal trauma, nerve damage – and that was the short list. Any one of them separately would not be enough to kill Jim but, combined, they posed a significantly greater risk. On their own, severe dehydration and blood loss were a serious threat to a healthy body, but Jim's body had been pressed to its limits beneath the unrelenting torture.

"Bastards!" he muttered, venomously, studying Jim's injuries.

Spock tilted his head in agreement and McCoy spared him an inquisitive glance.

"We've left orbit?" he asked, though it sounded more like a demand. He wasn't going to apologize for his epithet.

"Yes."

"Thank God." They'd been orbiting the ugly brown planet for two weeks and he had hated the sight of it more each day that Jim had remained in the Boraiths' grasp.

"We have been ordered to return to Earth," Spock said.

McCoy glanced at him. Spock, too, was staring down at Jim, his expression masked. "That good or bad news?"

"Those are our orders," Spock said, without taking his eyes from Jim's still body. "We are not required to evaluate the virtue of them."

McCoy drew a weary breath. He'd just spent five hours in surgery with Jim – who still had several more surgeries to undergo. Prior to that, there had been long days planning the rescue and, now, countless hours ahead trying to keep his patient stable and comfortable between the additional surgeries. He wasn't in the mood for Vulcan philosophies. "Just answer me straight, Spock."

Spock turned now and looked at him, his dark eyes unreadable. "What would you have me say, Doctor? We disobeyed Starfleet orders and violated the Prime Directive."

All of which were court-martial offenses.

A soft sound from the bed interrupted their strained conversation. A slight frown had etched itself between Jim's brows, but his eyes remained closed.

"It was worth it," McCoy said, flatly. "Whatever Starfleet decides to do."

"Agreed."

He turned his attention back to Spock. What was the Vulcan thinking and feeling? McCoy wondered. Just months earlier Spock had had his hands around Jim's neck, doing his damnedest to kill him. Now he was risking his career for Jim. McCoy sighed. That's how it was with Jim. He could make people so angry that they wanted to kill him, and, in the next moment, they were fighting alongside him. McCoy had never met anyone who could bring out both the best and the worst in people the way Jim did.

"Will he recover, Doctor?" Spock asked.

McCoy looked down at Jim. It was the same question he'd been asking himself. "He's got a serious infection he's fighting and there's a lot of damage to his spine. Plus, he's profoundly exhausted and debilitated." There was more, much more, but narrating a comprehensive list would accomplish little at this point. He wouldn't say more, for the time being. But his mind had already been busy reviewing the list of repairs Jim still needed – connecting severed nerves, stitching torn muscles and ligaments, sealing deep punctures, eliminating wound infections, reducing fractured bones, minimizing and eliminating scar tissue…the list seemed endless. And hanging over it all, like a dark cloud, was the systemic infection, which was currently McCoy's primary concern.

Alien bacteria were hard to combat. If everything went as planned – the infection cleared up, the edema and hematomas resolved normally, the upcoming, required surgeries proved successful – there was still the psychological effects of torture that Jim would need to deal with. How would his friend handle what had happened? He'd seen enough victims of torture in Starfleet Medical to know that the path to mental recovery was the longest and most unpredictable road. Some didn't make it back.

"We should've rescued him sooner," McCoy said quietly, guilt thickening his voice. A week earlier would have made a real difference. The infection wouldn't be so pronounced and entrenched, and Jim's eardrums would not have been ruptured and left to heal on their own, with the resulting scar tissue.

They both watched Jim silently for a long moment.

"Excessive reflection upon what could have been, beyond ensuring sufficient data was reasonably and correctly incorporated into our planning, is illogical," Spock finally said in a low voice. "The captain is here now."

But what if it was too late? He'd seen what the Boraiths had done to Jim.

"Do you think Jim remembers … anything?" McCoy asked, though he didn't really want Spock to answer his question. He wanted a comfortable platitude. But Vulcans didn't lie.

"He remembers, Doctor. He remembers it all." With that, Spock turned and left.

Alone with Jim, McCoy pushed Spock's words out of his mind. His job now was to keep Jim alive. He'd worry about the rest later. He walked to the other side of the bed. The ICU was compact, as were most of the discretionary areas on the ship, the space maximized for its current purpose. Life support equipment had been fitted flush with the back wall, along with small pullouts for IV solutions and regulators. If he had to, he could even do surgery in the small room. All the efficient organization made the space feel claustrophobic, however, when the equipment was in use. That sense had been further heightened when he'd ordered the other three walls to opaque, and the lights lowered whenever, and wherever, possible. Since the opaqueness of the walls could be eliminated with a single command, it was a pretty thin privacy shield. Still, it was better than nothing, and he didn't need every sick or injured crewmember coming into Sickbay to see Jim in his current condition.

McCoy put a hand on Jim's forehead, feeling the radiating heat of a soaring fever. He had Jim on the most aggressive antibiotics available, and they were barely making a dent in the deep-seated infection ravaging his body. He'd commed Starfleet Medical for a consult, transferring Jim's medical records to the Infectious Diseases Department. Starfleet had the best Infectious Disease physicians in the galaxy, now that the Vulcan Science Academy no longer existed. McCoy hoped they would be able to see something he hadn't. All he knew for certain was that Jim was fighting a severe infection and he couldn't identify the bacterial strain.

A nurse entered the space and checked the regulators on the IV lines, before replacing a nearly empty intravenous solution bag with a fresh one. She placed a new unit of blood in the warmer and checked the drip rate on the unit that was currently infusing. Jim was still getting blood transfusions in order to bring his red cell count back into a normal range, which would help with his oxygen saturation rates, as well. McCoy grimaced, thinking about the excessive blood loss that had resulted from the injuries the Boraith had deliberately inflicted with their tools of torture. In counterpoint, Jim's white count was still unacceptably high and, if they didn't find an antibiotic that was effective soon, they were going to be dealing with septicemia and organ damage on top of everything else.

McCoy lifted the thin sheet that had been pulled up to cover Jim's heavily bandaged chest. Earlier, before they could even start surgery, they'd had to thoroughly clean Jim's skin with a strong disinfectant, scrubbing away the layers of dried blood, body fluids and alien matter that had covered him. The antiseptic odor was still thick on the air.

McCoy's recent surgical incisions were raw and red, the cuts tracking across Jim's lower ribs, then extending in a clean line to the top of his pelvis. There, the wider abdominal incision was covered with a clear film that promoted healing and eliminated scarring if utilized soon enough. In addition, the film offered significant protection from further infection.

But it was the other incisions that made McCoy's jaw clench. Numerous cuts and slices littered Jim's torso and arms, along with puncture wounds that had been deep enough to reach bone. They'd been sealed but had not been treated. A few sessions under the dermal regenerator would erase all evidence of them, but for the time being, Jim was too sick to treat the more minor injuries. McCoy grimaced. Minor injuries only when compared to his other issues. They would just have to wait for now.

The chest tube was secure, sutured in place between Jim's fractured ribs, and draining well. The fluid was still fairly bloody, and McCoy made a mental note to watch that closely over the next few hours.

There was a brace around Jim's back, keeping his spine immobile. He still had another surgery, or possibly two, ahead to stabilize his spinal column. The trauma to the vertebrae was significant, but repairable. Jim's sadistic torturers had inflicted a line of deep punctures along both sides of his spine, next to the vertebrae. The resulting infection and edema from the punctures were causing paralysis of Jim's lower extremities and hampering McCoy's ability to do surgery.

He continued his exam, moving lower. Jim's pelvis had been fractured. It had been a miracle the internal bleeding from the fracture hadn't been more severe….or that Jim hadn't bled to death, as a result. Ironically, having his hands pinned to the floor had likely prevented him from moving enough to hemorrhage. How much did the Boraith know about human biology? Had they been specific with their torture? Or had it been just blind luck that they hadn't killed Jim?

Jim's left knee had been severely broken, the ligaments torn. The entire knee was swollen to twice its size and was a deep, mottled purple beneath the immobilization device. Another surgery for later. There had been nothing immediately life-threatening about it, so given Jim's fragile state, he had made the decision to wait.

"Doctor McCoy?" Rani, the charge nurse, entered the room. She was tall and thin with ink black hair cut just below her ears, and the greenest eyes he'd seen on a human. She reminded him of a cat. "Starfleet Medical is on the comm and wants to speak to you."

Finally. He nodded an acknowledgement to her and lowered the sheet, took a long look at the overhead monitor, and left the room. The circulation desk was not in the middle of Sickbay, but off to the side. It was the coordination hub for Sickbay, where the on-shift personnel gathered when they weren't at bedsides or in the OR, and within earshot of most of the bio-beds. He didn't want to have this conversation there, so he turned toward his small office. There was little privacy on a Starship. Every member of the medical staff who had treated Jim – and probably some who hadn't – knew what had happened to the captain down to the last agonizing detail, so confidentiality wasn't the motivation behind his decision to seek his office. He just wanted a quiet space to have this conversation, without his team analyzing his face and demeanor for clues to Jim's chances for survival.

The door slid shut behind him and he sat heavily in the chair, deliberately leaning forward toward the comm screen. It was the first time he'd sat down since Jim had arrived in the transporter room and he fought the impulse to sink back into the cushions, instead, and close his eyes. "Computer, McCoy, ready."

At the sound of his voice, the monitor lit up with the Starfleet Medical insignia. He waited, letting the long seconds tick past. Interspace communications could be unreliable, punctuated with long delays. He'd learned that on his first ship duty months ago. The screen finally blinked, and filled with the image of a young, blond woman.

"Dr. McCoy, I'm Dr. Geis, head of IDD here at Starfleet Medical."

McCoy stared at her in disbelief. She looked barely fourteen years old, if she looked a day. She couldn't be the head of the IDD. She looked even younger than Jim.

"Thank you for sending us Captain Kirk's records. I've reviewed them, and we couldn't identify the bacteria strain, either, but we believe it's closely related to Salmonella pantaephii. We recommend that you cease treatment of TX12 and begin a regime of Peni05 at 150 milligrams per hour."

McCoy frowned. "Peni05? Are you kidding me? Peni05 has been an obsolete treatment regimen for decades."

Peni05 was an old antibiotic, rarely used in the past seventy years. It had been created to combat a particularly strong antibiotic resistant bacteria in the late twenty-first century. The infection caused by the bacteria had been nearly 100% fatal, until the creation of Peni05 and eradication of the bacteria had eliminated it as a threat to public health. It had proven to be ineffective on modern cases of infection and, subsequently, retired from active use.

"No, I'm not," Geis said plainly and sincerely. "And it will not be, I believe, in your captain's case. Do you have any on board?"

McCoy took a deep breath and released it, feeling tension knot his shoulders even tighter and the first hint of a headache start. "Ma'am, no one's routinely used that drug in a hundred years. Why in hell would I have it on board?"

"It's doctor, not ma'am, Dr. McCoy, and if you don't have it, you're going to need to manufacture it. And quickly. We'll send the formula to your ship's computer." She paused. "The bacterium you sent us is very similar to one that afflicted humans generations ago. You should start treatment as soon as possible, given the seriousness of the captain's condition."

He mentally reviewed a litany of scenarios, calculating best options and side-effects, weighing them against Jim's advancing infection. "I don't like introducing a new antibiotic into his system. He's allergy prone and hasn't ever been exposed to Peni05."

"Dr. McCoy, you called us for advice because we're the experts on cases like this. You must trust us on this recommendation. Peni05 is old, but so is the bacterium infecting the captain. This is Kirk's best chance to fight off the infection."

"And if he's allergic to it?"

It was her turn to take a deep breath, and she suddenly looked far older than fourteen. "Let's hope he's not."

It was a gamble. The new medication could make Jim better. Or worse. First, do no harm – it was the first, best rule of medicine. He focused on Geis. Sweet Jesus, she looked young, but she was certainly no teenager, despite her appearance. Common sense reassured him of that. He had to assume she knew what she was doing. No one got to be the head of the IDD by being incompetent. He nodded. "Okay, I'll get him started on the drug. I appreciate the consult and the recommendation."

She seemed to relax. "Keep us updated on his status. Medical out."

The screen went blank. McCoy took the moment to lean back and let his tight shoulders relax against the cushions. He was tired. More tired than he had realized. All his muscles softened as his body welcomed the chance to rest comfortably. When was the last time he had slept? Yesterday? Or the day before that?

No. He jerked his mind from the thought of sleep and pushed out of the chair, forcing his body to move. He'd once done a seventy-two-hour shift in the ER in New Chicago during his first year as a surgical resident. He could manage; sleep would have to wait.

**Day Three**

McCoy stood at the foot of Jim's bed, studying the overhead monitor.

"Doctor?" Rani spoke from just behind him. "Do you need something?"

He realized he'd been staring at the monitor for some time, arms crossed over his chest, feet planted evenly. He supposed he'd looked undecided, and that was true. He'd been aware that the nurses were keeping a wide berth. Now they had sent in the ultimate reinforcement. When she was on-shift, Rani ran the nurses with a firm hand. He turned his head just enough to catch her in his peripheral vision. "Lab have the latest results?"

"On your PADD." She came to stand beside him and produced his PADD seemingly from thin air, offering it to him.

McCoy gave her an irritated glance. Rani had the uncanny ability to predict what he needed. He knew she had already reviewed the information. "Do I even need to look?"

"Marginal improvement. It's not a very fast-acting antibiotic. It takes more than 48 hours to build up to peak therapeutic blood levels."

He knew that, but he was a doctor. Although many physicians wouldn't even recognize the name, Peni05, if they heard it spoken. And non-physicians…? "You've dealt with this drug before?"

She nodded. "On Antares IV, during the Great Breakout."

He vaguely remembered the incident. A massive pandemic that had decimated the population over ten years ago. "Good results?"

"For the Antarians."

Maybe not so good for humans. But then, there had been only a handful of humans living on Antares IV at the time. And who knew how badly they'd been infected prior to receiving the drug?

Although, dammit, that wasn't an especially encouraging rationalization given Jim's condition.

"Hard to tell if he's looking better," she added quietly. It wasn't the most professional observation, but it was the truth.

He turned his attention back to Jim. Still deathly pale, the bruises on his face had faded some, and the swelling around his eye was less pronounced, as the hematomas and edema slowly resolved. The situation under the thin sheet was another matter. He hadn't treated the multiple lacerations since initially sealing and disinfecting them. The scars were still raw and red. The chest tube was still in place and draining. As for the rest … he was waiting for the fever to come down before subjecting Jim to further treatments or surgery. It was a waiting game – something doctors were still forced to play despite it being the 23rd century.

He activated the PADD, reviewing Jim's chart. Though Jim's vitals weren't getting any worse, they weren't getting any better either. His fever was still too high, 39.9℃ and his lungs hadn't shown the improvement McCoy had hoped to see by now. The fluid in the chest tube showed signs of the infection raging throughout his body, the continued inflammation degrading his oxygen saturation. The oxygen mask helped, but Jim didn't tolerate it well, even when unconscious. He was restless when it was in place, and during the brief periods when he was awake, it took the nurses' gentle cajoling to distract him from its presence. And even that did not last more than a few minutes. Not that McCoy blamed Jim for the restiveness which plagued his friend before he succumbed again to the illness-induced fatigue that racked his body. It was likely that Jim's dreams were filled with nightmares, so little wonder he fought the sleep he so badly needed.

McCoy stepped to the side of the bed and stared down at his friend. Jim was motionless, sleeping with unusual – and disquieting – stillness. It was becoming a pattern. There would be long periods of motionlessness, when Jim seemed to all but disappear into the cushioned surface of the bio-bed, then, abruptly, sudden fits of restlessness where he would be fighting everything – the sheet, the oxygen mask, the IVs …even the nurses.

Jesus, he looks young, McCoy thought. And he was. Jim had just turned twenty-six. McCoy had been in his third year of residency at Jim's age, two years ahead of normal due to his own aptitude for medicine.

Maybe it was the hollow, bruised look that made him do it, but McCoy reached out and gently touched Jim's hair. The Boraith filth had long-since been cleaned away. Jim's hair was once again blonde, although it was untidy. The ongoing fever and forced bedrest had dulled and flattened his hair, but despite that, there were still stubborn tufts sticking up, and McCoy couldn't help but imagine what Jim had looked like as a small child. As close as he and Jim were, Jim had shared very little about his childhood. McCoy had learned more about his friend's past from his medical records than from any of their conversations.

McCoy removed his hand from Jim's head before the man had a chance to react. Since returning from Boraith, Jim shied away, flinching, from any touch, barely tolerating the deft, professional contacts of the medical personnel that were necessary to treat and care for him. Even sleeping, he'd react to physical touch, however light or brief. It was evident in the increased blood-pressure and stress indicators displayed on the bio-monitor.

And there wasn't a damn thing McCoy could do about it, except reassure his friend that he was safe.

"How long before we reach Earth?" Rani asked.

He hadn't realized she was still in the room, that she hadn't moved from her position at the foot of the bed. "Three days, according to Spock."

"Will he be transferred to Starfleet Medical?"

In space, as CMO, it was up to his discretion whether to transfer a patient off the _Enterprise_. But once they were orbiting Earth, _Enterprise_ would be in space dock and it was standard protocol to have any wounded crew members transferred off the ship. He could get away with keeping crew members in Sickbay if they were close to being discharged back to active duty, but that was hardly the case here. And Jim was … well, Jim Kirk. It wasn't easy to hide him from the scrutiny of the higher-ups under the best circumstances. It wasn't even a possibility given Jim's present condition and the consultation with Starfleet Medical while enroute. Especially given the command team's decisions that had resulted in Jim's rescue from the Boraith.

They were all facing disciplinary action, except for Jim. He'd been a victim of circumstances on Boraith. The only thing the Admiralty could hold him accountable for was the decision to lead the First Contact team, instead of sending a junior officer. It wouldn't be the first time Jim had gotten a lecture on taking too many chances, although captains often made First Contact. But that was the least of Jim's problems. As for McCoy … would he even be allowed to treat Jim once they docked? Or would Pike remove him as primary?

"Likely," was all he said to Rani.

She stepped away from the foot of the bed and walked to McCoy's side, but her focus was on Jim. "I kind of wish we had more time to take care of him, ourselves. Earth is so … political. I prefer the ship."

He looked at her. He couldn't remember the details of her file, and so asked, "Earth's not your home?"

She shook her head. "I only did my schooling there."

She didn't offer anything more and he didn't ask. That's how it was on ships, people went to space to forget. He looked down at Jim. He hoped the same would be true for his friend.

Just as the thought surfaced in his mind, Jim opened his eyes. The intense blue still glittered with fever. Despite the swelling that McCoy knew, from his exams, still remained around the optic nerves, Jim's gaze appeared more focused. McCoy was careful not to move, giving Jim a chance to orient himself. He'd learned that sudden moves started Jim, causing the pain monitors to spike.

Jim made a small, guttural sound and ran his tongue over his dry lips. It was a source of pride for the nursing staff that they had kept the captain's lips from cracking despite the fever ravaging his body.

Blinking a few times, Jim squinted, probably trying to improve the clarity of his vision.

Jim knew he wasn't _there_ anymore. He'd known it before he'd opened his eyes, but he still checked. Every time. He couldn't see clearly, but it was enough. "Bones?"

His words were muffled. Something soft and unyielding covered his mouth.

"Yeah, kid, it's me." The voice sounded far away.

He frowned. His ears hurt. A constant throbbing travelled from ear to ear, around and along the back of his skill, like a tiny train that had been set on a circular track in order to grind pain into his very bones with each turn of its wheels. He swallowed with effort. God, his throat hurt. He reached to remove the object around his mouth, but cool fingers caught his wrist. His hands were bandaged like a poorly wrapped mummy, and he couldn't feel his fingers.

"Keep that on. It's helping you."

He didn't want it. He didn't need it. But he didn't have the strength to disobey. His arm trembled in Bones' grip. He tried again to clear his vision. He could barely make out the fuzzy image of his friend. Shifting slightly, he felt a sharp pull on his left side, a warning not to move, or there would be even more painful consequences. His entire body hurt to some degree and he wasn't certain if lying still helped or not.

"Everything … okay?" he asked. It was incredibly difficult to get words past his aching throat.

"With you? Could be better."

Typical Bones. He'd been rescued, but not saved.

"Can you see me?" Bones asked.

He nodded.

"We're still fighting off the infection. Some of your surgeries had to be postponed."

_Some_ of the surgeries? His thoughts stumbled. Hadn't he had surgery already? He remembered cutting and the pain that had bloomed in its wake. But everything seemed to jumble together – dreams and reality, capture and rescue, torture and comfort. Now Bones was telling him there would be more surgeries.

He must be more broken than he'd realized.

"How long?" He managed to ask.

"Until the next surgery?"

He closed his eyes. Straining to see only intensified his headache. "No." He pushed the word out. "Here."

"You've been here about three days, Jim." A hand pressed his shoulder – a gentle hand. Not _his_. "Rest. Your fever is still high."

He hated this weakness. He forced his eyes open and tried to look around. Sickbay, he knew it must be Sickbay, but couldn't see beyond Bones. Looking upward, he saw a smear of colors that brightened and dimmed with a cadence all their own. Medical equipment. Monitors. Thin, shiny strands drifted closer to his body. Those must be intravenous lines, but he couldn't see clearly where they connected to his skin. His body throbbed in pain, his hands were useless, and he couldn't feel anything below his waist except for a sharp gnawing pain along his spine.

He blinked and suddenly his gaze sharpened, allowing him to focus for the first time in…it didn't matter. But the new clarity brought no reassurance with it.

Bones was looking down at him with that calm, remote expression he wore when things were grim, and he was 'the doctor', the one who had bad news to deliver but didn't want you to freak out and do even more damage to yourself. The last time he'd seen that face had been during the battle with the _Narada_ – and he'd been standing at McCoy's side while his CMO talked with a crewman who'd lost both a leg and his wife on the same day.

Personally, he'd seen McCoy pissed-off, fed-up and impatient as hell, but he'd never received the doctor-face – even when McCoy had treated him for his bruises and sprains during the Academy. For the past few years, Leonard McCoy had been his best friend and comrade, the guy he got drunk with and bull-shitted with, the one he went to when he needed to let off some steam, and, on rare occasions, to find a comforting hand. But the way Bones was looking at him now ….

He was all medical and serious. It wasn't good. It wasn't good at all.

"S'okay." His lids were suddenly too heavy, he was suddenly too exhausted to fight to keep his eyes open and deal with any of it.

_I'll be all right_, he wanted to say, to reassure Bones, but all he could think was that he'd screwed up – he'd gotten caught.

And it had broken him.

**Day Five**

McCoy knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into Sickbay. He could feel it in the air. He also knew its source. As was his routine over the past few days, he turned and made his way past the circulation desk, toward the ICU, barely acknowledging the nurse on duty as he passed. Sickbay was all but empty, with just a pair of ensigns with minor injuries from engineering occupying two of the bio-beds. He planned on releasing them today, once he made his rounds.

Just as he approached the opaque walls of the ICU, Rani stepped out of the room with a tray in her hands.

"Morning," she said, pulling back in startlement. Juggling the tray, she smiled. "You shaved."

He had. First time since Jim had arrived.

"How is he?" he asked.

"Uncooperative."

He was awake. Damn.

"But I can't blame him," she added quickly.

McCoy nodded. He'd removed Jim's chest tube yesterday before going in to repair the spinal damage. The surgery had been long and taxing on Jim. It hadn't been the ideal time for surgery since Jim was still fighting off the Boraithian infection, but they couldn't wait any longer or the damage would be irreparable. He'd been in ICU most of the night monitoring Jim until he was sure his friend was stable and that the surgery had been successful. He'd only gotten a few hours of sleep and had hoped that Jim would sleep through the morning.

He looked at the surgical tray in Rani's hands and realized that she'd just finished another round of dermal therapy on Jim's wounds. They had begun using the dermal regenerator to treat many of the numerous lacerations and punctures on Jim's body, so that they would heal without scarring.

Normally, for a healthy body, the process was routine and nearly painless. But for a compromised patient, the rapid healing invoked by the beam of the dermal regenerator, it often proved to be an unpleasant experience. It mostly occurred in patients that had been, or were, seriously ill or in chronic pain. Such conditions caused an imbalance in the chemical hormones that governed the synergistic responses of the central and peripheral nervous systems to stimuli.

Stimuli like the unremitting pain from torture.

One of his past patients had likened it to the snap of a rubber band against the skin…repeated again and again and again as the beam moved slowly along the length of the wound. He had confessed that he had nearly asked to stop the treatments, and just live with the scarring. And that man had been dealing with only one laceration.

Jim had dozens, some of them still too deep and infected to be treated.

And until his body healed from the infection and the serious trauma injuries, the vital dermal regeneration therapy would be a constant source of additional pain.

He raised his gaze from the tray to Rani's face and caught a glimpse of the raw emotion in her eyes. He immediately knew how she felt about what had been done to Jim. In that brief glimpse, he saw anger, pain and sympathy. Then it was gone, carefully wiped away as soon as she realized her mask had slipped.

"When do you want him prepared for transport?" she asked.

"Transport?"

"Starfleet Medical alerted us they would have a transport shuttle waiting at the dock," she said. "They're awaiting your transport orders."

Sonofabitch. He'd almost forgotten they were docking at Earth today.

"Sorry," she said. This time she was the one reading him. With a sympathetic look, she moved past him.

He took a moment to get his own composure firmly in place before stepping behind the privacy barrier.

Jim lay flat on his back. The back brace forced him to lie in a supine position, which suppressed his respirations. The oxygen mask had been removed and a nasal canula had taken its place. The thin, clear tube nestled under his nose and wound around his ears. He was awake, pale and gaunt, and clearly agitated.

"You should be sleeping," he said, as he grabbed the PADD from the clip at the end of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Jim stared at him with a frown. He could see that Jim was still under the influence of the heavy pain meds he'd ordered, but clearly that wasn't the reason for Jim's silence. Moving closer to the head of the bed, he looked down at Jim and repeated the question, this time slower and louder.

"Swell," he responded weakly.

Uh, oh. He knew that tone. "Voice sounds better. How is your hearing?"

Pause. "Hurts when I swallow."

He continued to study Jim, not informing his friend he'd answered the wrong question. Jim's hearing wasn't improving, and he was concerned more damage had been done than he'd first thought. He called for a nurse and set the PADD down. Jim hadn't been awake much over the past few days, so he hadn't had much of a chance to evaluate the captain's mental state, but he knew enough to be cautious in his approach. Quick moves still elicited an exaggerated flight response from Jim.

Rani came to stand at the foot of the bed.

"Get me a level six scanner."

"Yes, Doctor."

Without taking his eyes off Jim, he hooked a stool with his foot and pulled it near, tucking it securely beneath him as he sat down closer to Jim. "Can you hear me?"

Jim nodded once.

"I'm going to do a scan of your ears."

Jim's answer was to close his eyes. McCoy took the opportunity to review Jim's vitals that were being displayed on the overhead monitor. Moving Jim today wasn't going to be easy. The vitals were showing typical post-operative stress, and even with the back brace in place, moving him would be uncomfortable at best, painful at worst. Jim's injuries were still too fresh, some of them, like his knee, still untreated. He'd have to work out a transport plan that accommodated Jim's fragile condition.

Rani quietly entered the room and handed him a small scanner. The level six scanner was non-invasive but sensitive enough to acquire the information he needed. He lightly touched Jim's bare shoulder to get his attention. With a slight, startled jerk, Jim opened his eyes. McCoy showed him the tiny receiver, about the size of a small button. Slowly, so Jim could follow, he placed the device just below Jim's left ear. The receiver would relay detailed cellular information back to the scanner.

He activated the scanner and studied the information that slowly populated the screen, before repeating the process with Jim's right ear. It was what he had feared. Jim's eardrums had not healed as he had hoped. Scar tissue had formed on the tympanic membrane and was interfering with his ability to hear normally. It would require treatment from a specialist.

He sent the information into Jim's file. Removing the receiver, he handed it and the scanner back to Rani and dismissed her with a nod of his head.

"Spock says we're docking at Earth today." Jim's words were slightly slurred.

A flash of anger swept through him. He'd specifically left instructions Jim was not to be disturbed, and yet, in the few hours he'd been sleeping, Spock had managed to violate those instructions. He tucked the anger away and nodded. "We are. You'll be transferred to Starfleet Medical."

Jim took a few breaths before he spoke. "Pike's gonna be pissed."

"No, he's not. Don't worry about him." Truth was, McCoy hadn't heard from the Admiral, so he really didn't know how Pike felt.

"Can't I stay here?"

He shook his head. He wasn't going to tell Jim that the command team was probably going to be arrested dockside and placed in the brig until their court-martial hearing. That they would be lucky to only be dishonorably discharged and not be sent to prison. He'd learn of that soon enough.

Instead, he said, "They can do a better job at Starfleet Medical on your hands. And your ears."

Jim's hands were still heavily bandaged. After several scans, he had decided to let the experts at Starfleet Medical do the repair. He didn't have the equipment he needed on the _Enterprise_.

Jim's eyes closed again.

"Get some sleep, Jim. It's going to be a long day. You're going to need your rest."

He remained sitting near his friend, watching the relaxed features. The bruises had been treated and were now nearly imperceptible, but Jim's pallor remained pronounced. Even his lips were pale. In sleep, free of pain and dark memories, Jim looked incredibly young – and incredibly damaged. How much could a human body endure before it broke? Jim's body had been pressed to those limits. He had done all he could on the _Enterprise _to keep Jim from dying and repair the worst of the damage_. Was it enough_?

He put a hand on Jim's bare shoulder. The flesh was warm and smooth. But the life energy that transcended the merely physical seemed faded.

Jim had always been a live wire, brimming with energy. It was difficult to see the energetic young man he knew so well brought so low, see the hollow, wounded look in the blue eyes that had always shone with intensity.

His hand lingered. He should get up and put the transportation plan together. Starfleet Medical was waiting. But he couldn't bring himself to leave. It was unlikely that Starfleet would allow him to continue to treat Jim once the transfer was complete. And if they put him in the brig, he wouldn't be able to even visit. This would be the last time he could count on having with Jim.

He stayed until a nurse entered to change the IV solution. Then, with a deep sigh, he stood. Spock would want a report and he had plans to make.


	3. Chapter 3

**Convalesce**

_Convalesce: to recover health and strength gradually after sickness or weakness_

**Day Thirteen**

Kirk woke slowly, gently easing into wakefulness, at first aware only of the throbbing pain in his back. He'd spent eight days at Starfleet Medical and had only just been released this morning to continue his recovery in his apartment. After a solid hour of relishing the quiet privacy his apartment offered, he broke the one rule Pike and Boyce had set: he worked. Not officially. Pike was no fool. He'd restricted Kirk's access to Starfleet channels. But he'd pulled a few strings and made some unauthorized inquiries into the status of his command crew.

"That's been locked down," his source said, "but I'll see what I can do."

Locked down and buried. _Enterprise_ was docked, and the crew had been assigned to stations on Earth. He hadn't seen any of them and now he couldn't leave his apartment. Pike had seen to that, as well. Not that he could have gone far. Despite all the surgeries and therapy, his body wasn't exactly functioning normally. Walking was cumbersome and painful. He was supposed to be wearing his back brace, but the tight confinement was too much for him, and he'd freed himself of the contraption upon arrival. Within hours of being home, he'd grown tired and had laid down on top of the bed to rest and give his aching back some relief. He must have fallen asleep immediately because he awoke, hours later, stiff and sore.

Curled on his side, his back hurt deep into his hips. Boyce had told him to sleep supine and let his spine rest, but he couldn't tolerate the position. On Boraith, he'd spent days on his back, bolted to the surface with _him_ looming over his restrained body, watching and waiting. The sour odor of his sweat and urine hung like a thick fog around him. At first, it was offensive and humiliating, but days later he no longer noticed or cared. His focus had narrowed to staying alive long enough for Starfleet to negotiate his release … or for Spock to show up. But days had turned to weeks and _he_ kept coming. Each time it became more difficult to hold on. And after a while – He slammed a tight lid on those thoughts and slowly opened his eyes. The sun was low in the sky. His apartment faced west, and the sun cast a deep gold light into the quiet space, long shadows already creeping into the studio room. How long had he been asleep?

The buzzing in his head told him too long. His cold hands began to sting with the familiar, sharp, pinpricks of sensation, as healing nerves woke and protested the lack of movement.

"Can I trust you to take care of yourself?" Boyce had asked and handed him a list of discharge instructions. Frequent movement and gentle stretching had been the first item on the list.

Time to get up.

Carefully, clumsily, he rolled into a sitting position, letting his legs fall to the floor. His hands were useless, hanging like anchors at the end of his arms, so he just sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the pain in his back and hands to settle before he attempted to get up. A sudden movement on the periphery of his vision caught his attention. Startled, he whipped his head to the side for a better view, his heart pounding. For an instant he saw _him_, tall and sinewy, ready to pounce. Then the image vanished, and his brain quickly registered a familiar figure - McCoy walking out of his bathroom. His friend seemed as startled as he was. He hadn't seen McCoy since the day he'd been transferred off the _Enterprise_ to Starfleet Medical. The first image he remembered upon waking there was Boyce standing at the food of his bed, rattling off a recovery plan. When he'd asked what had happened to McCoy, all he'd been told was that the doctor had been removed from active duty.

They stared at each other for a moment before McCoy quickly recovered and said something Kirk couldn't hear. Frowning, he turned his head to the right to try and catch the words. He still couldn't hear well out of his left ear. The buzzing in his head didn't help.

"You're awake?" McCoy repeated. He was dressed in civilian clothes. "Hope I didn't disturb you."

"No, you're a nice surprise," he said quietly, not knowing what else to say. His hands were really humming now, pinpricks attacking every nerve. He lightly shook them out, but the movement only made it worse and he hissed at the intense pain, flexing his fingers, hoping it would help.

"Here," McCoy said and knelt in front of him. Gently, his friend took his forearms and began massaging the muscles, stimulating the nerves to his hands.

It hurt like hell.

He sucked in a breath and moved to pull away.

"Give it a minute," McCoy said, holding him in place. "Those new nerves need proper blood flow. Your position probably put them to sleep."

He tightened his jaw through the pain and watched his friend as he worked the sensitive muscles. He didn't like looking at his hands. Despite the reconstructive surgery, they were still swollen and scarred, barely usable. He could see where the bolt had been driven through them. It was a sharp reminder of the moment it had happened, after he'd tried to escape. The agony of that moment brought bile to his throat.

McCoy continued to expertly work the muscles. Slowly, the pain receded, leaving behind a kind of numbness.

"Better?"

He nodded, staring at his friend. "Where have you been?"

McCoy looked dumbfounded, but recovered quickly, saying with his usual bravado, "Trying to keep Spock's ass out of the brig."

He sorted the information against what little he'd been told. It was hard to think. The pain in his back was becoming more pronounced and increasingly absorbed his attention. "Why are you here?"

McCoy looked hurt for a moment. "Thought you'd like some company."

What he needed was a transporter. But that action, too, had been blocked.

"Come on," McCoy said, as he stood and held out his hand. "I brought dinner."

He hesitated. When was the last time he and McCoy had shared a dinner? Three weeks ago? Four? It had been on the observation deck. They'd watched a spectacular view of the Corian Nebula. McCoy had complained they'd spent too much time cataloging the event.

"_Got some place to go, Bones?" he teased._

"_I'm just sick of recycled air."_

"_Don't tell me you want to go planet side? If you do, you can be part of the next away team mission."_

_McCoy scowled, not taking the bait. "I'm not that desperate."_

"_Maybe Starfleet will order us to some place pleasant, with fresh air and plenty of sunshine. You could work on your tan."_

"Jim?"

McCoy's voice brought him back to the moment. He focused on his friend's concerned face. He didn't want company. He was feeling that all too familiar weight in the pit of his stomach. But he knew McCoy wasn't going anywhere soon. Maybe a distraction would be a good thing, help keep away less welcome thoughts.

With McCoy's hand wrapped firmly around his bicep, he stood. Or rather, half-stood. The muscles along his spine tightened in protest, forcing him to remain slightly stooped. He took a few measured breaths, letting the muscles take their time to adjust. Finally, after several long minutes, they loosened. Bones waited silently until he finally straightened, his face a careful mask. Without a word, he walked toward the living room, Bones a silent support at his side. His gait was awkward. Boyce had repaired his left knee before he had been aware enough to know that it wasn't working. Still, the knee got stiff and his gait lacked any kind of coordination. By the time he got to his cushioned chair, rivulets of cold sweat were running down his face and he was leaning heavily on his friend. The moment the back of his legs touched the chair, he sank down, relying on McCoy to break his fall and maneuver him safely into it.

The rush of blood pumping through his veins deafened him. His vision darkened at the edges, until only a small spot of white light remained, as he fought to slow his heartbeat and remain conscious. For a long time, he just breathed, until slowly the white light expanded, and the shadowy outlines of his apartment swam into focus. When his vision finally cleared, he saw a glass of water hanging in the air in front of his face.

"Drink."

He reached for the glass, but his fingers were stiff, and he couldn't wrap them around the glass steadily enough to get a grip. McCoy kept a hand on the glass and guided it toward his lips. He drained the glass in a few gulps, then had to take more time to catch his breath. It took him a moment to realize that McCoy had disappeared. The sound of muffled voices reached his damaged ears. With an effort, he turned toward his small desk and saw McCoy leaning over it, conversing with someone on screen. He took a deep breath, fighting for air, and his vision blurred momentarily. Head pounding, he strained to hear what was being said, but the conversation was too short. Before he could decipher the words, McCoy was straightening away from the desk and walking back to the living area.

Nothing was said as McCoy relaxed into the chair directly across from him, but the expression on his friend's face was telling.

"How much trouble are all of you in?" he asked. He'd learned enough about what his crew had done to know the likely extent of the inquiry underway. And that's all it was right now. An inquiry. But that could easily change. They had disobeyed orders to save him.

"That wasn't about me," McCoy said. Then, pointing to Kirk's wrist, said, "Your medical alarm went off."

He looked down. He'd forgotten about the medical bracelet Boyce had secured to his wrist.

"Standard procedure," the doctor had said sternly, when he had opened his mouth to protest the need for it.

But really it was just insurance against Kirk disobeying his medical restrictions. Boyce had made it clear that any violations would land him back in Medical. He watched McCoy's gaze ghost over the back brace that he'd discarded on the end table, his lips grim. Had the call been about the alarm? Was Boyce sending medical transport to return him back to the hospital?

McCoy seemed to read his thoughts. "Don't worry. I called off the troops."

A sense of relief swept through him, but he didn't linger on it for long. Focusing on his friend, he tried to ascertain the reason for McCoy's visit. But before he could form another question, McCoy spoke.

"Starfleet's throwing a temper tantrum. They don't like anyone messing with their illusion that no one thinks for themselves."

"How much trouble are you in?" he asked again.

McCoy hesitated. "How much do you know?"

"Enough."

The look on McCoy's face said he didn't doubt Kirk's words. "The command team…collaborated but Spock's the one who went down to get you."

A logical move, Kirk thought. Logical and brilliant. Spock was commanding officer in Kirk's absence. Everyone else was subordinate and subject to Spock's orders. By making the decisions and taking the actions himself, Spock had limited the crew's exposure to court martial.

"Anyway." McCoy leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs. "They rule tomorrow." He paused, watching Jim closely. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, Jim."

Kirk wasn't sure if his friend was talking about his time on the planet or his time at Starfleet Medical. Either way, he said, "Don't worry about it."

"They let me have access to your chart. I've been following your recovery."

Recovery? He didn't feel recovered. His hands were tingling again, and he flexed his stiff fingers to ease the tension. It didn't help.

McCoy motioned with his head. "Boyce is an excellent surgeon. He's got plenty of experience, and Wallace is top of his field for nerve repair."

Wallace had been the surgeon who'd repaired his hands. Jim couldn't share McCoy's admiration, given that his hands were still useless.

"It'll take time," McCoy said quietly, reading his thoughts again.

"So, did they send you to babysit?"

McCoy's expression was unreadable, his gaze unflinching. "I'm not here as your doctor, Jim. I'm here as your friend."

Truth be told, he needed a friend right now. Pike was suspiciously cordial, almost paternal in his interactions with him, as if Pike was deliberately ignoring the circumstances surrounding his rescue. He'd only partially debriefed with the Admiral. His full report wouldn't be due until later, when Boyce took him off the medical waiver. But what little he'd told Pike had seemed to have little impact. The Admiral had heard him out a few days ago, while he was still confined to a bio bed at the Fleet hospital. He'd tried to be thorough, but Pike had stopped him an hour into it.

"That's enough … for now," Pike had said in a flat tone. He'd listened stoically with hands folded behind his back before ending the session and walking up to the bed. "Get some rest." Then, just as he crossed the threshold of the small room, he had turned. "You did good, Jim."

But Jim didn't know what the Admiral was referring to – his debriefing or his survival – and didn't care. Good? It had all been a colossal screw up. Didn't Pike understand you didn't get praised for getting your men killed?

McCoy studied his friend. When he'd first entered the apartment and found Jim sleeping restlessly and the back brace tossed aside, he'd fought the urge to comm Boyce. He'd read the progress notes and had recommended Jim stay in Medical for a few more days, but Boyce had overruled him.

"He needs some space," Boyce had said. "I'll be monitoring him."

When he'd turned Jim over to Boyce eight days ago, Jim had been in critical condition and fighting a massive infection. Stepping away from Jim had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, but Pike had been unmovable on the subject of his removal, even though he'd argued medical personnel were exempt from Starfleet's wrath over disobeyed orders.

"_My responsibilities are to the care of my patients. By Starfleet regulations, Captain Kirk is my primary responsibility."_

"_Not right now; you're off duty," Pike had said firmly. _

McCoy had tried to stare the older man down, but Pike wasn't someone to be intimated. The Admiral was thoroughly pissed that the flag ship of the Fleet, with his handpicked crew, had become Starfleet's biggest problem. Still, McCoy could see the concern in Pike's eyes. At that time, Jim's prognosis hadn't been good, and McCoy was certain Pike had read the medical report and understood the torture Jim had endured, all in the name of duty. And for what? A backwater planet that couldn't give two hoots about the Federation. And what the hell was Boraith going to do for the Federation anyway? It was just another planet to add to the growing list.

He'd stood in the corridor as they'd wheeled Jim away and it had felt like a sucker punch to his gut. Boyce must have made some noise though because, hours later, he'd been given a role as a consultant, though he was not allowed in the medical facility. He'd monitored Jim remotely and only now saw the evidence of Boyce's care with his own eyes.

At least he's standing, he thought with relief. Clearly, though, Jim was still recovering, and the infection wasn't completely cleared. He looked unwell, as evidenced by the unnaturally pale and drawn face. Dark smudges marred the skin beneath his electric blue eyes, speaking volumes about the quality of his sleep and the amount of pain he was still experiencing. Jim appeared vulnerable and frail. It was obvious he still needed help, since he tired easily and was unsteady on his feet. McCoy knew Jim was about to undergo a daunting regimen of physical and psychological therapy. Boyce had done a preliminary psych evaluation before discharging Jim that showed evidence of trauma to Jim's prefrontal cortex. Not surprising given the amount of torture Jim had been through.

_Marked evidence of insult to the hippocampus_, the record showed. But Boyce's comment in Jim's chart, after reviewing the scan, undercut the diagnosis. _Patient demonstrates above-average emotional regulation__._

"I can see your wheels turning," Jim said quietly.

McCoy kept his gaze steady. Jim could bullshit with the best of them. Had he fooled Boyce?

"I'm fine, Bones."

Like hell. The physical scars on his friend were still pronounced. They would fade in the coming weeks, but the mental scars ….

He'd read every report on Jim's progress, had daily conferences with Boyce and the other specialists on Jim's care team. But he didn't want to just read reports. He wanted to examine Jim with his own hands. He wanted to reassure himself that his best friend was healing. But he couldn't do that either.

"How about that dinner?" he suggested. Jim had lost a significant amount of weight; he couldn't afford to lose any more.

An hour later, McCoy sat back against the cushions of the armchair across from Jim. An awkward silence enveloped them. They'd said nothing while they ate in a well-crafted charade of silence that neither of them seemed to want to challenge. As if words might destroy the illusion they enjoyed, an illusion where McCoy pretended that he didn't know all that had happened to Jim, and Jim pretended that nothing _had_ happened to him. For a while, it worked. They shared a meal as they had done hundreds of times in the past three years. But each time McCoy looked up and saw Jim's pale, drawn face, the illusion shattered. Finally, the silence was too much.

"I'm sorry, Jim." It wasn't what he'd intended to say, but it was what he'd been thinking and feeling for weeks. Sorry he hadn't gone down to the planet with him, sorry they'd taken so long to rescue him, sorry he couldn't be with him at the hospital.

Jim met his gaze and he saw the raw pain, naked on his face. "Sorry?" he echoed faintly.

McCoy grimaced. What a lame thing to say, he chided himself.

"You saved my life."

"Spock saved your life," he corrected, quickly. He tamped down the memories of Jim, broken and bleeding on the transporter pad.

Jim broke the stare and lowered his eyes. "That's not what Boyce says."

"I can't take all the credit," he said evenly, studying his friend, wondering what he was thinking. "You fought hard."

A nerve beneath Jim's cheek jerked. The younger man was clenching his jaw.

"_Go see him," Pike had said to him, when the Admiral had shown up unannounced at his door. _

"_So, I'm cleared?" He'd been going stir-crazy under house arrest in an apartment he'd never wanted._

"_Not quite." Pike pinned him with an intense gaze. "He needs a friend."_

How many days had the Admiral been with Jim? How many hours had he spent at Jim's bedside? Or had Jim been alone, left to the medical expertise of the Fleet's hospital personnel? Pike had seen something that worried him enough to lift McCoy's house arrest orders for this single purpose.

"I wanted to be there, Jim. They wouldn't let me."

"I know." Pause. "I don't remember much." Another pause. "I don't remember leaving the _Enterprise._"

"You were heavily medicated. The shuttle ride was … long." And damn near killed you. "You went straight into surgery when you arrived at Starfleet Medical."

Jim gave no indication he'd heard, staring down at the floor as if all the answers to his problems were written there. All the vitality seemed to have been bleed from him, leaving him empty, a shell of the man McCoy had come to love. Suddenly, another memory assailed McCoy.

"_I'm taking the test again. I want you there." Jim stood in front of him on the steps of the Academy campus, looking like the king of the world, cocky and arrogant as hell._

"_Nobody goes back for seconds, much less thirds."_

That day Jim had acted as if nothing could stand in his way. He was so damn sure of himself. And now ….

I failed you, Jim, he wanted to say. He compressed his lips tightly, to keep the words from staining the air. His confession wouldn't help Jim. He wasn't sure what would. "It took us too long," he blurted, despite his intentions.

Jim didn't move, didn't raise his gaze at the abrupt confession, but McCoy saw the hollow look enter Jim's blue eyes, dulling their color.

McCoy wet his lips. His mouth was suddenly dry, and his throat tightened painfully. Everyone else in the landing party had died by the time they'd gotten onto the planet. He didn't know the detailed circumstances of their deaths and there were no bodies to retrieve for autopsy. All Jim had said was that they were dead. Nothing more. Had it been quick deaths, like Rainier? He wanted to ask, but he didn't know how to do that, either. Jim would hate the intrusion. Reject it. The young man was already closed off and shut down. But what had been done to him would not stay silent. He'd witnessed Jim's nightmares, the flashbacks that terrorized him … and he'd seen what the Boraiths had done to Jim's body. It wasn't something that Jim would be able to just forget.

When the silence became too much, he demanded just loud enough for Jim to hear, "Damn it, say something, Jim."

"What do you want me to say?" Jim's voice was monotone, the words flat, despite having pulled them from the depths of his anguish.

He waited until Jim raised his head and met his gaze before he spoke. "I know what they did to you."

It was meant as a door-opener, a way into the fortress Jim was building. He'd learned the trick a few years ago and it had always worked. But this time the reminder of his medical expertise failed him.

"What do you know? A few broken bones … some cuts …."

McCoy watched as waves of pain chased across Jim's face, the shadows of memories too strong and intense to be denied. They aged the young man, stole his youthful optimism. Made him look tired and worn. That's what pain did – put a veil over the life it slowly syphoned away.

Finally, Jim's gaze dropped. "You don't know anything, Bones," he said, his voice a whisper.

And he didn't. Not really. It was one thing to see the evidence, understand the damage, the signposts of trauma. It was quite another to walk the path, itself. How many hours had it taken Jim's captors to carve them into Jim's flesh? How many days had he waited in pain? Only Jim knew.

"Then tell me."

For a moment, Jim didn't move. Didn't speak. Then slowly, awkwardly, he rose, leaning heavily on his uninjured leg. He paled a bit when he stood, and McCoy could see his eyes lose focus. He took a few slow, heavy steps, ungainly and awkward, until he was at the window. The sun had set, and the apartment lights had automatically turned on to light the room in a soft, artificial glow. McCoy let him create the distance, but after long minutes, stood himself and joined his friend, standing at his side, taking care not to bump him.

"You know, Jim, you're not alone. If you talk about it, it'll help."

"I already had my psych eval, Bones," Jim said without moving.

"I know." He shifted to get into Jim's line of sight. "You're not expected to be infallible. What happened to you … what happened to you wasn't your fault. It's –"

Jim swayed suddenly, the blood draining from his face. McCoy quickly caught him by the arms to keep him from falling, but Jim tried to jerk back from his touch as if burned. Shit.

"You're okay. I got you."

Jim leaned heavily on him, breathing laboriously.

"Let's get you to bed. You've had enough for one day." He carefully guided Jim to the bed.

"I can make it," Jim said, slurring his words.

"I know but humor me anyway."

Jim was sweating by the time they closed the short distance to the bed, and McCoy could feel a tremor traveling through his too-thin frame. As he lowered Jim to the bed, a soft moan escaped the bloodless lips.

"Easy," he soothed, laying him on his back. "You should have your brace on."

Kirk said nothing, and he stepped away to retrieve the meds on the kitchen counter Jim had not touched. Quickly locating the analgesic, he eyed the script. Too light. Jim was still on antibiotics and, while the pain meds prescribed were one of the few Jim could tolerate, the antibiotics decreased their efficacy. It wouldn't be enough. When he returned to the bed, Jim was watching him. He raised the hypo, as if to ask permission. Jim closed his eyes and McCoy pressed the instrument to his right hip.

"I screwed up, Bones," he said softly, unexpectedly.

McCoy pulled the light blanket over Jim's shivering body. "How do you figure that?"

He opened his eyes. "First Contact rules. Keep things calm and friendly. Don't create an incident."

So that was it. It wasn't survivor's guilt. It was failure. He stood looking down at his friend. Without permission to treat Jim as his friend deserved and needed, despite being his CMO, knowing there were few words that would bring comfort, he had never felt more helpless. "You didn't screw up, Jim. Starfleet did, when they ordered you to make contact with them. It was just bad luck."

And a risk that came with the job. But Jim knew that only too well.

Jim snorted with derision even as his lids closed. Within minutes he was out. McCoy stayed well into the evening, watching his friend sleep, as if his presence might guard against the nightmares that would eventually come. Finally, his communicator sounded. It was Pike. Time to go.

* * *

Kirk woke to find Pike in full dress uniform staring down at him with the same expression he'd had when Kirk had first met him – when Kirk's battered and bleeding body was sprawled across the table in the bar. It took him a moment to orient himself, to extricate himself from the depths of sleep.

"Doesn't anybody knock anymore?"

Pike tilted his head. "Privileges of rank. How about some breakfast?"

As Pike moved toward the kitchen, he slowly negotiated his way into a sitting position, fighting off a way of dizziness and the first stab of protest in his back. His mouth was dry, and his head hurt. Food was the last thing on his mind.

"McCoy said the board was ruling today." He didn't like addressing the Admiral from his position on the bed, but he wasn't confident he could navigate the distance to the kitchen without staggering.

"Already did," Pike said and laid out two prepared meals on the table. "McCoy's been reinstated to active duty."

He craned his neck to get a view of the sky outside his apartment windows. The sun was high. He'd slept most of the morning. Turning back to Pike, who stood patiently waiting at the table, he asked, "And Spock?"

"No formal reprimands. His record will remain clean."

"Then I can see him."

Pike hesitated. "Come eat."

Something was wrong. He carefully stood, untangling himself from the blanket and making his way to the small dining table. He rarely used it, rarely used his apartment at all since becoming captain, and he wasn't comfortable within its carefully designed domesticity. Still, he needed to know what Pike wasn't telling him, so he lowered his aching body into the chair to appease the man. Pike took a seat opposite.

"Eat up," the Admiral said, his easy congeniality grating.

"Where's Spock?" he asked bluntly.

Pike stared at Jim, a forkful of eggs in one hand, suspended half way to his mouth. He sighed, and continued eating. "He's been sent to Denebia," Pike said quietly. "He'll be back in a few weeks."

Out of sight, out of mind. An old military trick. Of course, the board wasn't going to make a formal ruling and let everyone in Starfleet know that their orders to make First Contact had gone horribly wrong, that they had decided to abandon the hero of the Federation to certain death in order to contain the damage and that their premier Starship crew had gone rogue upon hearing Starfleet's decision. As a military institution, they would never condone such actions. But they'd had few acceptable options open to them since the rescue attempt had been successful and he'd inconveniently survived. Disband the crew that had saved Earth and that had now saved him? For all the public knew, Kirk had played the role of a tragic hero on Boraith. Starfleet liked the possibilities inherent in that story. As for Spock … Denebia was a shithole, positioned near the Zone, ripe with pirates, killers and every other kind of felon. The Federation had historically turned a blind eye to it and only sent spaceships to keep the criminals from seeping further into Federation space. From Starfleet's perspective, it made a perfect temporary punishment for Spock.

"So, that's it?"

Pike looked up from his plate, busily chewing a mouthful of food. "For now."

What the hell did that mean?

He swallowed past the dryness. A low buzzing began in his left ear. "Admiral-"

"Eat." Then, more softly. "That's an order."

He knew Pike well enough to know when not to push. There was something more going on and Pike wasn't ready to talk to him about it. Was Denebia only the beginning of Spock's punishment? Did they intend to break up the command crew? Would he even remain in command of _Enterprise?_ He still hadn't given his full report. They didn't know everything that had occurred after his capture, what _he_ had done. Was that what Pike had meant about 'for now'? Maybe HQ didn't want to hear how badly he'd screwed up during his time as a prisoner.

Pike was watching him. He pushed the dark thoughts aside and stared down at the plate of eggs. He hated eating in front of others. His hands couldn't properly grasp utensils and his coordination was like that of a toddler. Bad enough to do it in front of the nurses, but Pike? His gaze flicked to the Admiral and he knew he wasn't going to get out of this one. Reluctantly, Jim picked up his fork, his fingers unable to curl properly around it. He got just enough grip to shovel the eggs on, then tried to distract Pike from his watching him too closely. "Does this mean I'm released from confinement?"

The corners of Pike's mouth curled with amusement. "Not even close. Until your physicians release you to limited duty, you'll stay here."

Physicians. Plural. He opened his mouth to protest, but the Admiral cut him off with a sharp statement that held no trace of humor.

"That's non-negotiable, son."

They finished their breakfast in silence. When Pike seemed satisfied he'd eaten enough, the man cleared away the plates, grabbed his cover and said, "Get some rest. We'll talk later."

Kirk sat at the table and absorbed the stillness around him. Early in life, he'd learned too much quiet wasn't good for him. It created room in his mind for memories and images that he didn't want to recall. In the hospital, he'd been too medicated to feel the silence. The blissful haze the pain meds had bestowed – which he'd always hated in the past because they made him feel slow and stupid – had been welcome. But they'd decreased the dosages upon his release and, as a result, his mind was too clear much of the time, giving him space to think, and leaving him vulnerable to the ravages of memory. Even as that awareness surfaced, the hated memories began to rise, escaping from the dark, deep places in his mind where he'd secured them. They crept ever nearer, toxic shadows of pain and degradation, that would not be denied. Shuddering, he felt _his_ hot tongue as _he_ licked across his skin. _His_ rank odor suffocating him as he lay pinned to the floor and at _his_ utter mercy.

Fuck! He didn't want to remember. Shaking, he pushed a hand through his matted hair and stood, a little too abruptly, as if he could outrun the memory and leave it far behind. Determined, he made his way to the bathroom. He'd only had one shower at the medical center – sonic waves, controlled and regulated, designed for a soothing cleansing. It had been short and efficient, the nurse right there to intercede, if needed. He had barely felt any of it. Now he desperately wanted to properly scrub the memory of _him _from his skin.

He shed his clothes with a kind of violence, stripping them from his body and tossing them aside. He was desperate for the water to wash away the memories when he caught sight of his body in the mirror. He froze. He hadn't seen the evidence of his injuries at Starfleet Medical. There was only a small mirror in the hospital bathroom, barely enough to shave by. Not that shaving had been an option for him given the condition of his hands.

But now he stood before the almost full-length mirror, staring at his unfamiliar body. Despite the medical treatments, the scars were still pronounced, marring his chest and thighs. It was _his_ work. Jim looked at them, the crisscross patterns, thin, not always straight. They'd gotten infected, he'd been told, and the infection had slowed down the healing process.

He turned slightly, tracing their path with his eyes along his hip and back. Some were surgical, but most were _his_. Raising an unsteady hand, he clumsily traced a long scar that travelled from his ribs to the edge of his pelvis and felt a hot rush of hatred rise to the back of his throat. That one he remembered. For a moment, he feared he would vomit, then he tore his gaze away and stepped into the shower. Quickly, he punched in the controls. On board, the command crew received a water allowance and habit had him wasting no time in programing the device. Within seconds, hot pellets of water stunned his sensitive flesh.

For a long time, he stood under the assault as steam rose around him and filled the small space. Moving under the shower head, he let the hot torrent rain down until he was dizzy and exhausted and needed to lean against the wall for support. Still, he didn't move. Head pounding and back aching, he remained until the first usage alarm sounded softly. Slowly, he moved from beneath the downpour and reached for the body wash. He filled his palm with the soft mixture and began to scrub his hair, then his skin, starting with his chest and arms. The motion awoke a throbbing torment in his healing hands, the nerves firing off angrily. But he ignored the pain. He refilled his palm with more soap, before rubbing his hands across the ugly and sensitive scars, moving to his belly and hips. His fingers were useless, and his hands were little more than limp appendages, but he didn't care. He wanted to disinfect every centimeter _he_ had touched. More soap. More. Refilling his palm again and again with the fragrant cleaning solution, his hands moved lower as he tried to bury the memory of _him _and the feel of that hot tongue on his inner thigh.

Suddenly, the shower door sprang open and a blast of cool air struck him.

"What the hell are you doing?"

It was McCoy, an angry wraith shrouded in a white cocoon of steam. Reaching inside the shower, he hit the controls. The water stopped, leaving his skin hypersensitive and shivering.

"Jesus Christ, Jim." McCoy secured a hand to his arm. It felt cool on his heated skin. "Are you trying to get re-admitted to medical?"

He let McCoy wrestle him out of the stall. If not for the iron grip McCoy had on his arm, he would have fallen. McCoy steered him quickly to the toilet and he promptly sat down – hard – which elicited a sharp gasp as his spine and hip protested the jarring movement with a jolt of intense pain. A robe fell over his shoulders, cocooning his limp body. Every nerve and vein in his body was strumming, blood pounding through his ears.

"God damn it, Jim! This is my first day back as your attending physician and your medical alarm is going off like a damn Klingon battleship!"

His ears were less than reliable, but he heard Bones loud and clear. He was pissed. A sharp sting to the side of his neck told him how pissed. In an instant, his head cleared, but a high-pitched ringing had begun in his left ear. Taking a few ragged breaths, he raised his head to see McCoy towering over him, a tight-lipped grimace distorting his face.

"I wanted … a shower." His words were barely a whisper. It was hard to breathe, and his thoughts were a little muddled.

"You're a moron, you know that?" McCoy's features softened ever so slightly, but his tone was still sharp as he asked, "Can you stand?"

He wasn't sure. His legs felt like jelly, but he wasn't going to let McCoy know that. He was equally pissed, but for a different reason and he didn't want McCoy's hovering and gentle touch. He wanted to punch something. Hard. Despite the trembling in his limbs, he made a move to stand. Almost immediately, McCoy swooped in and grabbed him firmly by the arms, hauling him unceremoniously to his feet as if he were an unsteady child. He tried to pull away but found himself leaning in for support as his strength quickly failed. He didn't want to be touched and he resented McCoy's interference. Unfortunately, he had little choice but to allow McCoy to all but manhandle him out of the room and to the bed. Ears ringing and pulse thumping, his legs collapsed as soon as they hit the edge of the mattress, sending another jarring wave of pain along his spine. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he steeled himself not to make a sound.

"Lie back," McCoy said.

A hand cupped the back of his neck and guided him to lie flat. Despite the intensity of the pain, his muscles were limp, useless. Before he could acknowledge the weakness flooding his disjointed body, his legs were carefully gathered up and placed gently onto the bed, relieving the stress on his back. The robe had fallen open and he shivered as the cool air wafted across his skin. McCoy deftly closed his robe and sat on the edge of the bed, laying a hand on his chest.

"Take a deep breath," McCoy commanded evenly, watching him intensely.

It was then that he realized his heart was thudding like a marathon racer and his chest was heaving, struggling to get air into lungs. When had that happened? He was shaking, his entire body atremble, and he could feel his heart slamming against McCoy's palm through the thin fabric of the robe.

"Just take a few easy breaths, Jim," McCoy said. With his free hand he produced a small scanner and studied it for a moment, a deep scowl quickly appearing.

Trying to slow his breathing, he stared at his friend, wondering what he was thinking. Was he worried? Pissed? Both? The ringing in his ears started to diminish.

McCoy's gaze lifted from the scanner to anchor Kirk. "Your blood pressure's going through the roof. You need to slow your breathing."

Worried.

McCoy sat with his hand on Kirk's chest, not moving until he seemed more satisfied with the scanner results. He set the device aside and removed his hand. For a long time, they just stared at each other, then McCoy got up and walked away from the bed, out of his line of sight. Shivering, aching and trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his back and the imprinted sensation of McCoy's hand on his chest, he stared at the ceiling, wishing desperately he could roll onto his side.

McCoy suddenly appeared with something in his hands. "You need to wear your brace."

Fuck.

Before he could protest, McCoy had deftly opened his robe, activated the brace with a few quick clicks and set it over his middle.

"Bone—"

The device activated around him. The cool static field closed around his trembling body, straightening his spine and immobilizing it. He grunted in pain at the sudden shift in position.

"It's too tight."

"It's supposed to be tight." McCoy stood with his arms crossed, inspecting the brace. But then his gaze slowly travelled from the brace to Kirk's chest and arms. His expression revealed nothing. Even when his gaze lingered on the long, pink scar on Kirk's left side. Finally, his inscrutable gaze returned to Kirk's. "You need to rest."

With that, McCoy covered him with a blanket, then walked quietly away.

**Day Fifteen**

Kirk couldn't hold back the cry any longer. It clawed its way up from deep inside his chest. A loud, short guttural cry that filled the room and broke the silence.

"Okay." Hank, his physical therapist, had one hand pulling his left hip and the other planted flat against his ribs, forcing his spine to twist. The awkward position sent shards of pain from his groin to his neck. Just when he thought Hank would ease up, he'd put a fraction more pressure, toppling Kirk's control.

Laying on a soft mat that Hank had laid out, Kirk was sweating and trembling from the session. His hip and back hurt like a bitch. To make things worse, Bones had arrived, in uniform, halfway through.

"Don't let me interrupt," was all he'd said and moved to stand in the background, almost out Kirk's line of sight. Almost. Kirk could see him now standing motionless, watching with folded arms with the same damn unreadable, indecipherable expression he'd worn yesterday looking at Kirk's scarred body.

"Don't tighten up so much," Hank said easily, slipping his hands beneath Kirk's spine.

"Fuck you, Hank," he said breathlessly. Closing his eyes, because Hank was too damn close, he concentrated on breathing, trying to ignore the trembling that had suddenly assaulted him.

Hank skillfully massaged the tight muscles along his spine. "You been wearing your brace?"

He opened his eyes and looked at the man. Toe to toe, Hank towered over him by a good fifteen centimeters and had the kind of rock-hard body any wrestling athlete would envy. But his hands were surprisingly gentle, and the massaging was reducing the biting pain the forced movement had caused. It was also making the throbbing worse. And a high whine had begun in his left ear.

"We done?"

Hank stopped the massaging and stared down at him – stern-faced at first, then he broke into an amused smile. "We're just getting started."

Hank moved to his opposite side and began to work the right hip. At first the movements were slow and gentle, uncomfortable but tolerable. But with each pass, Hank pushed the range of motion a little more, and he began to the feel the increased throbbing crest into wave of stabbing pain. Each time Kirk tried to adjust to the forced movement, Hank would plant a hand on his ribs to prevent him from easing the position, twisting his spine even more. The pain spread outward from his spine, erupting into his pelvis like a burst of hot liquid. Tiny sparks of light peppered his vision, but he didn't cry out. That's what _he_ wanted, that small victory that Kirk was determined to deny. He would die first. He clamped his jaw tight against the growing agony and braced every muscle against it until his vision started to darken and the feel of his body began to fade.

Suddenly, all the pressure and tension were gone, and Hank was in his face.

"Jim, breathe!" Hank's hand rubbed his chest vigorously. "Come on."

The ringing in his ear obscured it, but Hank's voice was loud and commanding enough to hear. He took a hitched breath. The agony had eased only slightly. Another breath. Then another. His vision cleared. Hank knelt over him with a worried expression. A dozen more even breaths and Hank leaned back – satisfied. Kirk could see that Bones had stepped closer. He was scowling, tight-lipped and silent.

"Don't hold your breath," Hank said. "You have to breathe through this."

_This._ What did that mean? This pain? This humiliation? This therapy that I'm performing on you that is necessary and requires no consent? No one asked him if wanted therapy. No one had asked him if he was ready.

Hank was studying him with an unreadable expression. "Take a short rest."

_How fucking magnanimous of you._ He closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, taking the pressure off his back. His hips were aching. _He_ had broken his pelvis on Boraith, but he didn't want to relive that experience. For a long time, he lay motionless, fighting off memories awakened by the pain, inhaling the pungent odor of sweat that had soaked into the mat. After a while, his back settled down and the pain was reduced to a sullen, deep throbbing.

"Hey, don't fall asleep."

He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back. He couldn't see Bones any longer. The doctor had moved from his former position and was out of the line of his sight. Hank had the brace in his hands.

"Doc says you're done." Without another word, he lifted Kirk's shirt and expertly slipped the brace in place and activated the controls. "Keep this on. You've got a lot of inflammation between your vertebrae. It should help with the discomfort."

He hated it. It was tight and restricting, like a pair of arms squeezing him.

Hank held up a small ball as if it were a prize. "For your hands." He demonstrated by squeezing it. "Once an hour." He placed it in Kirk's left hand and gently closed his fingers around it.

Kirk winced. The swollen digits complained loudly at the movement, waking the sleeping nerves like a hive of angry bees. Hank let go and he tried to mimic the motion, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate.

"Gentle," Hank commanded. "It's not about strength. This is dexterity. We just want your fingers to get used to grasping."

Kirk tried a few more times, but the ball kept falling out of his hand. Hank quickly retrieved it.

"Both hands," he instructed. "Once an hour." He studied Kirk for a moment longer before offering him his hand. "Let's get you on your feet. You're getting my mat sweaty."

Kirk's clothes were soaked. This morning he'd managed to get into a pair of loose-fitting pants and simple black short-sleeved t-shirt. Now the cloths clung to him, another cloying layer irritating his sensitive skin.

Hank helped him to his feet. The brace made movement difficult and cumbersome. He pushed a shaky hand through his damp hair as Hank grabbed a firm hold of his bicep and steered him toward the living area and into a chair. For a long time, he sat, leaning against the cushions while he tried to slow his breathing and the frantic rush of blood surging through him. He waited for the pulsating pain in his back to stop. The high-pitched whine in his ears was dying down to an annoying buzz – not painful but distracting. He closed his eyes, exhausted.

When he opened them again, Hank had left, and Bones was entering the living area with his medical case. He set the case on the low table between the chair and the sofa, and opened it. Kirk watched, slightly detached from it all, letting his body settle a fraction more into the cushions. His breathing had finally slowed to normal, leaving behind a headache and a queasy stomach. Shivering slightly from his damp cloths, he wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a walk outside to breathe in the San Francisco air, to feel a part something that wasn't manufactured and recycled.

"Hold out your arm," McCoy commanded.

Startled from his thoughts, he refocused on his friend. McCoy had a thin instrument that looked like hypo in one hand while his other hand stretched out palm first, ready to grasp Kirk's arm. Bones didn't look pleased. He wore his clinical, professional mask, albeit one with undertones of annoyance. Now that he had been reinstated as Kirk's attending physician, he'd taken more and more active control of Kirk's recovery.

"What? No foreplay?" Kirk asked flatly, as he stretched out his arm. His hand had a small, barely perceptible tremor that he suspected Bones had noticed.

McCoy gave him a look that said, 'I'm not in the mood', and gently, but firmly caught hold of his arm. McCoy's touch was cool on his heated skin and he tried not to pull away as the thin instrument was pressed, with a soft hiss, to the soft skin of his inner elbow.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Blood sample."

Seconds later, McCoy withdrew the instrument and released his arm.

"What for?" Kirk asked, rubbing his arm. It wasn't that the site was painful. It was that he could still feel the imprint of Bones' hand on his skin.

McCoy marked the vial and fastened it into the medical case before turning his full attention back to Kirk. "You're running a fever. Now let me ask you something." He turned and grabbed a small bottle of pills from the table and showed them to Kirk. "What's this?"

He glanced at the familiar bottle and felt his temper rise. "Medicine," he said, but his tone said, 'fuck you.'

"You're goddamned right, it's medicine. Vital medication. These are your antibiotics, Jim. And you haven't touched them."

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but McCoy interrupted him.

"You almost died from this infection and we haven't completely cleared it yet. We had to manufacture these antibiotics, they're so damn rare. You _have to_ take them."

"I forgot." And he had.

For a long, uncomfortable moment, McCoy didn't move. Tight-lipped, scowling. his gaze hard, Kirk saw the muscle along his jaw jumping under the clean-shaven skin. He'd never seen that look on his friend's face before and he wasn't certain how to react. Bones could be terse under the best of circumstances, impatient with what he perceived as stupidity, and barely tolerant of uncooperative patients, but underneath it all there was always his physician oath – First do no harm. No matter how irate Bones got, he put the care of his patients first. And that, Kirk decided, was what was eating at McCoy. He was about to apologize, when McCoy's facial patterns shifted, smoothing out into his professional doctor face, and he spoke.

"You're going to get antibiotics IV and I hope to hell you don't have a relapse. Now, we can do it here or you can lay down on the bed."

Typical Bones. He'd laid down the law and that was it. No discussion.

"Here," he said in surrender, hating the sound of his own voice.

With a curt nod, Bones stood and left the living area. When he returned, he had a small IV bag filled with amber liquid and a long trailing line of plastic tubing. Within minutes, Bones had the IV bag suspended above him.

"Which arm?"

Bones was standing on his left side, so he simply raised that arm a few centimeters off the chair rest. Without a word, Bones bent down and readied the IV, moving – no doubt from habit – to Kirk's hand. There was the slightest deviation and Bones smoothly re-centered on the inside of his elbow, extending his arm out until it lay flat. The sharp sting of the needle lasted only a second before Bones was connecting the lines and the amber liquid was pushing into his veins.

"How long am I supposed to stay like this?"

"Until the IV is done, Genius."

McCoy stood over him, but Kirk refused to meet his gaze. Now that his heartrate had returned to something approaching normal, the damp cloths felt too cold and he began to shiver in earnest. He hadn't realized how tight his muscles had become until he suddenly became acutely aware of the deep and growing pain in his back and hips. McCoy moved away suddenly and returned with a small blanket. Carefully, he tucked it around Kirk.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

McCoy's fingers touched the inside of his left wrist in the familiar motion of taking a pulse. Just when Kirk was about to pull away, McCoy released him.

"You're looking pale," McCoy said as he moved to his PADD and studied the readouts, scowling. "Your blood-pressure is still too high."

What did McCoy expect after Hank had twisted him into a pretzel?

"I'm going to give you something for the pain." McCoy retrieved a hypo and snapped a vial in place. Coming around to Kirk's right side, he pressed the instrument to his arm.

The hot pressure lasted only a few seconds, but he quickly felt the effects. The pain retreated to tolerable levels, but the shivering continued.

Watching him, McCoy said, "Computer, raise room temperature five degrees."

From where he sat tucked in his soft blanket, Kirk could easily see out the large windows. Blue sky stretched to the horizon, above the cityscape dominated by a view of Starfleet Headquarters in the immediate foreground. He liked taking a shuttle around the city, seeing the world from just above it – remote and free. The opposite to now. Starfleet had confined him to quarters and he felt trapped, smothered by the restrictions. Exhausted, he tipped his head back against the chair, catching a glimpse of the IV bag and the clear tubing linking them together.

_Kirk's gaze travelled from the clear tight band on his left wrist to Sorenson's wrist. A thick strap bound them together. Kirk's hand was resting on Sorenson's chest. He didn't know if it was to comfort Sorenson or himself. He raised his gaze to the man's eyes to see if he had regained consciousness. The linguist's face was alarmingly white and mottled with deep bruises. The almost bloodless lips were slightly parted and he panted in faint, shallow breaths. In the past three days, _he_ had tied them together, and Kirk had been made to watch as they slowly tortured the man._

"_Hang on. Don't let them win." It's what he'd been saying to the man for three days. The only encouraging thing he could think of to say that wasn't a lie as they cut into him, broke his bones and made him scream. _

_Sorenson's eyes were glassy and unfocused. They were alone now, in the dark underground, but that wouldn't last long. Sorenson took a deep breath and then, like the air being released from a balloon, released it. Kirk felt the man's chest fall and become still. Eyes still open, he never drew another breath, but he'd never looked more peaceful._

The memory flooded him with the same heavy grief and despair he'd felt in that moment he'd realized that Sorenson was no longer alive. "I should have told him to let go," he whispered.

A hand pressed against his forehead for a long moment, then dropped to gently draw his head up. "Jim?"

He felt cold. Bloodless. The pain medication was pulling him down towards sleep, an inexorable, outgoing tide. He welcomed it, wanting to forget, to retreat to a place where he wouldn't remember what they had done to Sorenson after he was cut free from Kirk.

Bones cupped a hand to his cheek. "You need to rest."

He closed his eyes. He didn't need to rest. He needed to forget.


	4. Chapter 4

**Reclamation**

_Reclamation: the process of claiming something back_

**Day Eighteen**

McCoy stopped outside the door of Jim's apartment and hesitated. Damnit. He'd been trying not to obsess about Jim's vitals, knowing how much his friend hated the medical monitor and McCoy's intrusion. But Jim was his patient now, and that forced him to disregard the resistance Jim had to doctors and all things medical.

"I want it off, Bones," Jim had said two days ago, holding up his wrist to display the thin band. It was locked securely in place and only the proper medical code could release it.

McCoy had stared at him with a closed expression. Jim stood in the living area, flushed with fever … or anger. McCoy couldn't tell which. They'd squared off because Jim hadn't been eating or sleeping and McCoy had called him on it.

"I don't need it."

But Jim was still very sick. He was healing but slowly. He was impatient with his recovery, intolerant of the restrictions, and the medical treatments were wearing thin on his already frayed nerves.

"It stays," McCoy ordered shortly, watching as Jim's hand began to tremble.

"Fuck," Jim said under his breath and turned away, abandoning the fight and looking exhausted.

McCoy felt a small stab of guilt, but his first responsibility to Jim was as his doctor, not his friend. Those two roles often – and frequently – conflicted.

"_You've been cleared by the inquiry board," Pike said. "As of now, you're reinstated as CMO and as Jim's primary physician."_

_It's about goddamn time, he thought. But to Pike, he only nodded confirmation, not trusting himself to speak._

"_Take care of him," Pike said quietly. _

Releasing a short breath, he quickly reviewed the PADD that displayed Jim's vitals. It took him only a second to see that Jim was either sleeping or resting. Not wanting to risk waking him, McCoy used his pass code to enter. For the most part, Kirk wasn't sleeping well, and he spent too much time pacing his apartment until his body was exhausted and he could fall into a restless sleep. That seemed to be Jim's only strategy – exhaust himself until he couldn't think anymore.

The door opened with a whispered hush of air and he entered quickly. It was 0700 and the studio apartment was dim, not yet lit with the morning sun. Still, the internal lights had been set at 30%, and had likely been on all night – something he'd noted as a new habit for Jim over the past few days of entering Jim's apartment. He and Jim had a standing appointment, every morning at 0700 for an initial check-up and administration of medications. Since Jim had forgotten to take his antibiotics, McCoy had begun to administer them intramuscularly each morning to ensure he received the proper dosage. So, Jim shouldn't have been surprised to find McCoy on his doorstep at this hour. Still, he was respectful of Jim's privacy and entered with caution. Looking around the dimly lit and sparsely furnished room, he easily located Jim sprawled on the top of the bed. As he walked closer, he saw Jim curled on his side, the brace laying near the foot of the bed. _Goddamn it!_ Getting Jim to wear the brace and sleep on his back was a battle – and Jim's stubbornness on the subject was setting him back in both his therapy and his recovery.

McCoy noticed that damp sweat dotted Jim's pale forehead. His fever had continued, despite the regiment of antibiotics. McCoy took the moment to carefully observe the sleeping man. Jim's respirations were even and shallow and he appeared relaxed in undisturbed sleep. Even his facial expression was deceptively peaceful – which was rare. The bruises had faded and there was nothing on the sleeping man's face that would have indicated he'd suffered in any way. The rest of his body was another matter.

With a sigh, McCoy stepped away. He'd let Jim sleep a while longer. Turning toward the living area, he set his medical case on the end table and set up his PADD on the small desk Jim had placed at the end of the room. Since returning to duty, the responsibilities of CMO began again to flow to him. _Enterprise _was in space dock, and void of crew, but the Med Bay still required oversight. Supplies needed to be inventoried, restocking orders placed, equipment checked, and repair requisitions completed for anything not meeting operational standards. He was mulling over requests for several new pieces of more specialized equipment, especially given Jim's proclivity for injury. In addition, one of the physicians was requesting a transfer and Starfleet Medical was pushing another intern cadet his way and –

_Shit!_

He stared at the notice that flashed for immediate attention and felt his stomach clench. Starfleet Medical was requiring Jim to begin his psych evaluation. That meant they deemed him fit enough to do an initial assessment. He'd been expecting this, but not so soon. The acceleration also meant that Starfleet Command would want a full debrief, which they couldn't do until Jim cleared psych.

Bastards.

He'd wanted Jim to be more stable, physically stronger, before he faced the critical probing of the assessment process and subsequent debriefing. It didn't take an expert in psychiatry to know that Jim was having flashbacks and struggling emotionally with what had happened on Boraith. McCoy had observed enough in the past three days to be worried. This wasn't the kind of thing that just went away with time, like the broken bones and cuts he'd repaired. Only Jim knew what had happened. And he wasn't saying a damn thing.

He glanced over at the bed. Jim's world was about to be turned upside down. Again. And this time, if he didn't respond in a way that satisfied the psychiatrist, he wouldn't be returning to the _Enterprise_. And _that_, McCoy knew, would kill him.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the worrisome thoughts aside. They'd deal with it one step at time. Determinedly, he turned his attention back to the tasks at hand.

He'd been working an hour on his reports when he heard a soft, short moan and faint "fuck" come from the bed. Glancing up, he saw Jim stir and slowly roll into a sitting position, rubbing a hand through his bed-ridden hair. McCoy noisily set his PADD down – alerting Jim to his presence – and pushed back his chair. Jim turned toward him with a frown.

"Aren't you the early bird," Jim said. His quiet voice was a little husky. He appeared uncoordinated and clumsy as he untangled his legs from the blankets and set his feet on the floor, wincing as he did so. Instantly, he tucked his hips and curved his back, resting his elbows on his knees. "How long have you been here?"

"Not long," he said easily, slowly closing the distance between them. The peaceful expression Jim had worn an hour earlier had vanished, replaced with a pinched look around his eyes and mouth. His posture told McCoy that he was in pain.

Jim frowned, looking confused, as if he were waking up from a drugged state. "What time is it?"

"Zero-eight-hundred." He wondered how long Jim had been asleep. "Want something to eat?" he asked, stepping into the kitchen.

"Do I have a choice?" Jim asked sullenly, and slowly stood.

McCoy noted that Jim was wearing the same clothes he'd been in yesterday – black loose-fitting pants and a dark grey long-sleeved shirt. He quietly busied himself in the tiny kitchen, watching Jim out of his peripheral vision – a skill he'd found very valuable as CMO. Patients behaved differently when they thought the doctor wasn't looking. Especially Jim.

Without a word, Jim walked to the bathroom. His movements were stiff and slow, but steady. It still took his muscles long minutes to warm up and, without the brace, the support of his core was weakened. Still, he was walking better than a few days ago, and that was progress.

While Jim was in the bathroom, McCoy busied himself with making the pour-over coffee that he'd gotten from the market yesterday. It was the one Earth-grown luxury that he and Jim consistently missed aboard the _Enterprise_, and it had become a welcomed – and traditional – treat upon their mission returns. That obviously hadn't happened with their return this time, and he thought Jim would appreciate something that felt more familiar today, something that would remind him of normalcy.

The door to the bathroom opened and Jim walked out – hair combed, and face freshly washed. As he walked past McCoy, he sniffed and frowned. "Is that the real stuff?"

McCoy was pouring the fresh brew into two mugs. "Fresh from the Agora yesterday."

"Thought you'd forgotten," Jim said, turning away. He continued toward the end of the sleeping area, peeling off his shirt with a grunt. Carelessly, he tossed it into the bin and fished out a clean one – Starfleet's black daily uniform top. With his back to McCoy, the doctor got a clear look at the span of his back. Despite everything his body had been through, Jim still had a fit, well-muscled body beneath the fading scars. No doubt, it was what had helped him survive on Boraith.

Jim was beginning to struggle into his clean shirt – without his brace – when McCoy said, in a warning tone, "Jim."

Sighing heavily, hands inside the shirt, he turned. "I don't need it."

"Yes, you do," McCoy said evenly and calmly.

For a moment, Jim didn't move, and McCoy was worried they were going to start the day with another argument. But after several tense moments, Jim dropped his shirt and scooped up the brace. Every movement was punctuated with resentment as he positioned the brace, grimacing as it locked in place. Turning his back on McCoy again, he struggled into his shirt, his fingers grasping clumsily at the fabric.

Silently, McCoy stepped up behind him and gently assisted, careful not to touch Jim.

Shirt and brace in place, Jim turned around. The electric blue eyes directly met his gaze, something of a rarity. For once, they were warm, filled with the barest hint of ridicule. "Happy?"

McCoy softened. "Jim, I'm not purposely trying to piss you off. If you'd cooperate a little more, this would all be much easier _and _go more quickly."

Jim didn't respond right away, but McCoy could see that he'd gotten through. At least a little.

"How much longer?"

"A few more days. Week tops."

Jim snorted at that and stepped past him. The aroma of coffee still hung enticingly in the air and Jim was drawn to it like a magnet. Sitting on the one stool the kitchen bar had to offer, Jim carefully wrapped both hands around the mug and drank deeply, before setting it down in front of him. For a brief moment, it was like a snapshot from the past. Jim looked relaxed and content.

And Jim _was_ making good progress on his back therapy, McCoy reminded himself – despite Jim's attempts to undermine the treatment program every chance he got. It was his hands that still fell short of the progress they had hoped for. They had an appointment at Starfleet Medical today to take a closer look. McCoy hated to think of another surgery for Jim, but the deficiency in dexterity and movement had dimmed their hopes for a good prognosis.

McCoy moved to get his medical kit from the living area. Returning, he loaded the hypo with the Peni05 antibiotic and turned to Jim. Catching the man's gaze, he raised the instrument, silently asking permission to proceed.

With a resigned expression, Jim looked away and McCoy tucked his free hand into the waist band of Jim's pants and gently pulled the material down to expose Jim's hip. Pressing the hypo against the narrow span of exposed flesh, he delivered the contents quickly, but left the hip exposed.

"Is this helping?" Jim asked suddenly, trying to pick up his mug.

It was a fair question. Jim still had a fever and the antibiotics had gone on longer than would be normal with modern-day antibiotics, which generally required far fewer days of treatment.

"Yes. It's just taking longer to combat this particular bacterial strain." He tossed the empty vial into his kit and retrieved another, checking the label. Clicking it in place, he pressed it against Jim's exposed hip.

"What's that for?" Jim asked, eyeing the hypo with concern.

"Anti-inflammatory. Your scans showed some tissue swelling."

"God forbid we go a day without scanning me."

So, Jim was in that kind of mood. McCoy put away the hypo and closed the medical kit, stepping around to the other side of the bar to get his own coffee. Leaning back against the counter, he sipped his coffee and watched Jim, who had just set his own mug down and was trying to massage his hands. McCoy knew from the scans that Jim's hands constantly ached and were always more numb than not. However, the tension McCoy had seen early around Jim's shoulders had relaxed some. Whether that was a by-product of a better night's sleep or wearing the brace, he couldn't tell.

Jim seemed more introspective than usual, so McCoy was surprised when Jim raised his gaze and lightly asked, "This mean I get a pass on PT today?"

"No PT today." McCoy took another healthy sip of coffee before speaking. "We have an appointment at Starfleet Medical at 11:00."

Jim looked at him expectantly.

He pointedly looked at Jim's hands. "We want to take a closer sc— look at your hands."

Ducking his head, Jim stopped his self-massage and picked up his mug. They drank their coffee in silence until Jim spoke.

"What else is going on, Bones? I've got a feeling there's more you want to say." He met McCoy's gaze, unflinchingly.

Jim had an uncanny ability to know when something didn't feel right. He called it a gut instinct and it was what made him a genius at command. Against all data, against all logic, he followed his own intuition. McCoy had forgotten how damn perceptive the kid was.

Taking a measured breath, he said, "Starfleet wants to start your psych assessment."

McCoy watched as Jim processed this new information.

Dropping his gaze, he asked, "Today?"

"No. Tomorrow."

There was a long silence. McCoy held his now empty mug and didn't move, just stood leaning against the counter, watching Jim. The young man's lips were compressed into a thin line. After a long time, Jim looked up at him, his eyes worried.

"What do I have to tell them?"

He looked at Jim for a long time, feeling helpless. Broken bones he could heal. Ruptured organs he could repair. Blood loss, fever … the right amount of medicine gave the body a fighting chance to heal itself. But the mind? He knew the only way out for Jim was to talk about what had happened, process the memories haunting the corners of his mind. But he couldn't tell Jim how to do that when he didn't know what was hurting him. "I don't know, Jim."

Jim swallowed, as if his mouth had suddenly gone dry. He kept his gaze on the countertop. Deep down, Jim knew he wasn't going to get a pass on this. It was a rule he wasn't going to be able to find a way around. Starfleet regulations were unbendable, and Pike was involved, so Jim would have to comply if he wanted to be returned to duty as captain of the _Enterprise_. Worse, psychiatrists weren't easily fooled. Jim wasn't going to be able to charm his way out of this. The assessments were thorough and, at times, unrelenting. And that, McCoy knew, was what was eating at him.

They sat in silence, lost in their respective thoughts. Then, the coffee long finished, McCoy pushed away from the counter. "How about some eggs."

**Day Twenty-Four**

The memories had been locked away as deeply as he could bury them. If he didn't disturb them, they would usually stay dormant. He just needed to keep his mind focused on other things. And when one or two memories did manage to escape, they were immediately and firmly pushed back into the black pit dwelling at the bottom of his mind. He'd learned the trick as a child and it had served him well. Talking about what had happened on Boraith was like poking and prodding a slumbering beast that, once awoken, threatened to smash the bars of its cage and escape. No, it was more like a resting snake coiled in the leaves, its venomous threat silent and still until something agitated it, and then it struck, volatile and deadly.

The past two days Kirk had paced his apartment like a caged tiger. Not yet released from house restrictions, he'd at least been freed from the medical bracelet and the constant monitoring. He was taking full advantage of the unsupervised time. Being confined to such a small space, his mind spinning with horrendous images, had set every nerve and muscle into agitated motion. His body refused to remain still, and the images refused to remain quiescent. Physical therapy was a welcome blessing, a chance to move and feel pain. But he was healing, and the pain was decreasing daily. Even his hands were getting better. Bones had reduced his pain meds significantly, and it was getting more difficult to find the distractions his mind desperately needed. So, he paced. He'd been at it all night, restless and anxious, unable to sleep.

At his desk, the small terminal cast a pale light onto the wall. He'd spent hours on his report for the debriefing, going over every detail, reliving every moment he would have given anything to forget. He had tried to distance himself from the memories, writing down the events that had occurred on Boraith as if they had nothing to do with him. He wanted to fulfill his Command duty as captain and complete the damn report, but he'd gotten mired in the horror and his mind kept revisiting the details. It was like watching a vid in his mind, playing over and over.

The sun was coming up, the eastern sky awash in pale shades of blue and peach. Another day. He moved one foot after the other. Another memory.

Fuck that.

The muscles in his shoulders were knotted and tight. Exhausted from his constant pacing, a deep heaviness weighed on his limbs, making each step seem like he was walking through thick mud. His back ached fiercely but he ignored it, continuing to pace until the ache had grown into an intense pain that spread across his entire back and deep into his hips. _Keep moving_. And he did, until he found himself standing once more in front of the wall that separated the bedroom and bathroom, feeling the confines of the small room like a pacing tiger in a too small cage. A constricting band tightened around his chest as he desperately sucked air into his lungs. The wall faded from his sight as fresh memories surged, breaking free. It all came rushing back at him. Too much, too fast….

_He was pinned to the floor, naked and exposed. Helpless. Bleeding. And _him_. _His_ long rough tongue licking away the layer of fresh blood, feasting on him like a hungry jackal. _His_ sex organ grew hard, jutting and juddering against Kirk's thigh as his arousal gre_w_. Soon _he_ would—_

Bastard!

Every muscle tightened in desperation as he fought the memory back under control, even as he felt the iron band squeeze the air out of his lungs, sending his heart racing. He wanted to move. Moving kept the images away, kept the pain sharp, giving him something to focus on other than the memories. But his exhausted body wasn't listening any longer. Sweat soaked his nape, ran down his temples. Curling his fingers into tight fists, he felt the first sharp warning stabs of welcome pain flood his healing hands.

Stop!

He hung onto the pain. Wanted more. Wanted to hurt and be hurt. Anything to stop the memory of _him_ from eating him alive. But like a breached dam, the one memory he'd tried the hardest to keep contained poured out, unchecked in all its vivid detail, until he was swept away in the noxious flood.

His_ tongue slid along the deep cut that ran from his ribcage to his hip, the rough texture igniting a firestorm of pain, all the while making soft gurgling sounds of pleasure as _he_ lapped and drank. Warm and wet, it slid lower, to the inside of his thigh, moving in long, unhurried strokes._

Kirk shut his eyes as nausea swelled. His stomach clenched. Fuck! Stop! Suddenly unsteady, he braced himself against the wall, laying his hands flat against the smooth surface. He drew a short breath, then two, his head spinning.

_Blood pooled, warm and sticky, beneath Jim's back and quickly cooled as it spread on the cold metal of the floor. It only served to excite _him_ more. _His_ tongue probed and searched beneath his back, lapping at the pooling blood, as _he_ rubbed _his_ sex organ against Jim's leg, rutting against him. _

Stop!

He slammed his right hand – open palmed - into the wall, feeling satisfaction at the unyielding impact and the clean pain that followed.

"Jim!"

_In one swift move, Jim rose to his knees, twisted his hips and swung his leg hard into _his_ jaw. Enraged, _he_ reared up and drove both _his_ fists into Jim's lower abdomen. Jim felt his pelvis snap as the bones fractured._

A hot flush of sudden and intense pain jolted through him, up from his clenched hands into his arms. White dots filled his vision as the memory disappeared along with his sight, and his entire focus narrowed to a single pinpoint. Distantly, he was aware of strong, gentle hands on his shoulders as his knees buckled, and he landed hard on the floor.

"Goddamn it! Jim."

The memory vanished, the pain shattering it into fragments too small to be reassembled, like the fragile glass of an antique goblet dropped on an unyielding floor. Sweat rolled down his face and his entire body was shaking. Coldness swept through him and he felt the blood drain from his face. That last pinpoint of light vanished, and he collapsed numbly into Bones' arms. Dimly, he was aware of Bones swearing and positioning him to lie flat on the floor. His body felt limp, unresponsive. There was the sound of a scanner. A sharp hiss against his neck.

Time stopped. His mind stopped, and he reveled in the nothingness unexpectedly, at peace. A black tide, gentle and inexorable, began to draw him down into unconsciousness.

Another sharp sting at his neck.

Slowly, the darkness lifted, and he wanted to cry out, beg it to return. His head felt strange, his thoughts disconnected and dulled. McCoy was kneeling over him, studying a scanner and scowling. The world slowly coalesced around him. His fragile sense of peace vanished like mist under a hot sun. He closed his eyes. He didn't want to think any more.

McCoy stared down at Jim. The blue eyes that had stared at him briefly before rolling back into his head had been panicked and unfocused. Jim's complexion had gone bone-white and slightly grey, before he dropped. Small tremors shivered across his clammy skin. McCoy didn't need his instruments to tell him the man was in shock. The scanner trembled in his hand, and he tightened his grip on the instrument. He took a deep breath, reclaiming his equilibrium. Jim had gone into shock quickly. If McCoy hadn't been here ….

He took another look at Jim's vitals, his mind calculating, diagnosing, planning. Jim's blood pressure had bottomed out, his respirations were shallow and rapid. He was tachypneic and tachycardic. He waited tensely to see if Jim's blood pressure would respond to the medication. It took all his discipline as a physician to wait. He couldn't administer more meds. Jim needed fluids. His blood sugar was at rock bottom. But, most critically, he needed Jim's goddamn blood pressure to come up and stabilize. If he didn't start responding soon, he was going to have to call for an emergency transport to Starfleet Medical.

He pressed his fingers to Jim's carotid artery and felt the pulse racing beneath his fingertips. The flesh felt cool and clammy. What the hell had happened? He'd just entered the apartment for the daily check. Jim had been doing so well, with the exception of the low, persistent fever that continued to stubbornly hang on, defying the antibiotics. Obviously, something had set him off. The scans were showing exhaustion, shock, pain. He tore his eyes from Jim and glanced back at the undisturbed bed. Had Jim even slept last night?

A moan drew his attention back to Jim.

"Easy." He removed his hand from Jim's neck to lightly grasp his shoulder. With a quick glance at the tricorder, he studied Jim's vitals. Not good. His lips flattened into a tight line. Jim needed IV fluids and he had none here at the moment. Jim had seemed past the need for them.

Jim's eyelids were fluttering. His respirations were still too rapid, but they had slowed a little. Jim rolled his head to the side, groaning, and McCoy squeezed Jim's shoulder to ground him.

"Take it easy. You're all right."

"Fuck you," he mumbled pulling away. "Leave me alone." Jim's voice was thin and thready.

McCoy's scowl deepened. "You're in your apartment, Jim. You collapsed." He spoke slowly and calmly. "Try to stay still and take a few deep breaths."

It seemed like hours before Jim's eyes began to focus. Some color – not much – had returned to Jim's face. The tricorder readings were still showing his vitals to be low and unstable. McCoy prepared another hypo of tri-ox and pressed the instrument against the side of Jim's neck. Jim didn't even flinch as the injection bit into him with a short hiss.

"Okay?" McCoy asked, staring intently at Jim.

Jim closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah," he said weakly. The dose of tri-ox flooded his system – increasing his oxygen levels– and he began to look around. Confusion flooded his face and he frowned, looking perplexed.

"You're in your apartment," McCoy said again, not taking his eyes off Jim's face. "You remember what happened?"

Jim raised a shaky hand to his head but didn't answer.

McCoy took the opportunity to check his vitals again. The dose of tri-ox had helped, and Jim's blood pressure had rebounded a bit. Still low, but out of dangerous territory. "Head hurt?"

Jim's hand dropped to the floor and he winced. Looking at McCoy, he asked, "What'd you give me?"

"A vasopressor. A dose of tri-ox. You went into shock. Do you remember what happened?"

Jim suddenly rolled away, onto his left elbow.

"Whoa, there." McCoy put a firm hand on Jim's shoulder and pressed him down. "You need to stay still and on your back a while longer. You stand and you're likely to drop again or have a damn heart attack."

Jim frowned. His arms were shaking. McCoy could see he was still trying to process what had happened.

"Your electrolytes are in the toilet. You're shaking because your glucose is low and you're in pain. When was the last time you ate?"

Silence.

"Before," Jim said softly and, with an effort, lifted his shaking hand to his head again.

That wasn't an answer, but he suspected Jim wasn't going to be able to answer much until his blood chemistry and vitals were under better control and his head cleared. McCoy kept a firm hand on Jim and the other kept the scanner active as he continued to study Jim's vitals. Fifteen minutes later and McCoy felt Jim had improved enough to get him up and onto the bed.

"Let's get you off the floor," he said.

That proved to be a more difficult task than McCoy had anticipated. Jim was unsteady and weak, off balance in every way, and still didn't tolerate touch. McCoy had no choice but to wrap an arm around Jim's waist to steady him – at least Jim was wearing his brace – and hooked Jim's outside arm over his shoulder, eliciting a grunt of pain from Jim. Jim's right hand – the one that had hit the wall with such jarring force McCoy had felt it through the floor of the apartment – was swelling.

"Slowly," he said, giving Jim a moment to adjust to the change in position.

A blessedly few short steps later, McCoy eased Jim onto the bed and braced the back of his neck with a firm hand, guiding him down to lay on his back. McCoy stood back and inspected Jim more closely, now that he was horizontal again. Still pale, but the shock appeared to be wearing off a little. He loaded up two more hypos from his kit and sat at the edge of the bed. All the while Jim had been watching him, white-faced and silent.

He raised the hypo. "This is glucose. You're going to have to eat something later, but this will help with the fuzziness." He pressed the hypo to Jim's arm.

After a few moments, the shaking stopped, and Jim's eyes looked clearer. McCoy took another scan and, satisfied, set the scanner aside and focused on Jim. "How's your hand?"

"Fine."

"Uh huh." He knew it had to be hurting like a sonofabitch. He only hoped Jim hadn't undone the work from the therapy and the treatments. They'd finally been making progress. Filing that thought for later, he asked, "You want to tell me what happened?"

"Not particularly." Jim's voice was stronger now, too.

"I don't need details, Jim, but I can't help you if you don't talk to me. It's clear you haven't slept or eaten in a while. Your blood glucose was 61. That's dangerously low. And the lactic acid levels in your blood were sky-high. You've clearly been overworking your muscles for hours. What's got you so riled up?"

"It's nothing." Jim held his gaze for a moment before wearily turning away.

"You damn near drove your hand through the wall. That doesn't sound like nothing." He watched the muscles in Jim's jaw bunch. "This have anything to do with your psych assessment?"

Jim grimaced, as if he had pressed too hard on a tender spot.

He thought as much. Taking a slow breath, he made an effort to change his posture, resting his elbows on his legs. "Jim, I know you don't want to talk about what happened on Boraith, but something is obviously eating at you. Something that drove you to ignore the needs of your body." Pause. "It's as clear as day that something happened down on that godforsaken planet that wasn't about … broken bones and blood."

Jim's breath hitched, his gaze darkened, and he remained silent. McCoy had taken a chance broaching the subject. But he remembered clearly what Jim had said the last time they had tried to talk about this.

"_What do you know? A few broken bones … some cuts …. You don't anything, Bones."_

"Jim—"

"Leave it, Bones."

McCoy scowled, fighting anger and frustration. He heard the warning tone in Jim's voice, knew that look. There were few subjects Jim had closed him off to – his mother and his childhood were two big ones – and the younger man always had the same look and tone when those doors closed. He'd always respected Jim's personal privacy, hadn't pressed him on those subjects. But this time …. He met Jim's gaze with a stern look. "I can't do that, Jim."

Jim's jaw clenched, and the muscles twitched steadily. McCoy saw Jim's swollen hand curled into a fist. Whether Jim felt that pain or not, was unclear. He waited.

After a moment, Jim looked away. The door had closed.

"This isn't going to go away," McCoy said.

"It would if you'd fucking stop talking about it."

"No, Jim, it wouldn't. It doesn't work that way, or you wouldn't be up all night, and I wouldn't be here treating you for shock."

Long minutes of silence filled the room, and McCoy was uncertain as to what his next move would be, when Jim finally spoke.

"Every Starfleet officer is trained for capture and interrogation." Jim's tone was flat, dull.

McCoy sat silently, watching Jim closely. The younger man was staring blankly at the far wall.

"The training doesn't make it easy. But … it didn't go that way."

McCoy frowned. What was Jim trying to tell him? "You weren't interrogated?"

Jim sighed heavily. "That's what torture's for, you know, to soften you up for questioning. That's what we're taught to expect. That's what we're trained to do – to resist to the best of our ability for as long as we can."

Understanding dawned. Jim hadn't been asked any questions, so he didn't understand what the Boraith wanted from them. From him. What was there to resist but the pain of torture? So, if it wasn't information the Boraith wanted, it was something else. It was dimly starting to make sense to McCoy.

"Jim, that isn't the only purpose of torture." He'd also been trained as a Starfleet Medical Officer. His training had focused on the care and treatment of torture victims, rather than being one of those victims. But he knew more about torture than he'd ever wanted to learn.

Jim turned to look at him.

"It's also used as a way of controlling the group, making an example of someone to show everyone what they can expect if they don't cooperate." McCoy softened his tone. "Or the punishment can be purely for the enjoyment of the captors, if they're sadists."

It was clear Jim hadn't thought of that possibility. The expression on his face shifted as understanding began to set in.

Encouraged, McCoy continued in the same gentle, instructive tone. "Boraith was First Contact, Jim. They clearly saw us as a threat of some kind, as invaders. What they did…culturally, it could be how they treat all invaders. There was nothing for the Away Team to do. Nothing for any of you to resist. You were victims, plain and simple."

First Contact was always dangerous, but Starfleet usually did its due diligence – monitoring, assessments, long range evaluations. They had fucked up this time. Moved forward with the process too quickly. And Jim and the landing party had paid the price.

"Jim—"

Jim abruptly rolled onto his side – facing away from McCoy – with more speed than he thought possible, though he heard Jim's involuntary grunt of pain at the quick movement.

"You're wrong," Jim said thickly.

He wanted to comfort his friend, lay a hand on his shoulder and let him know it was okay, but he knew instinctively that Jim would not want that. Not now.

"There was another purpose to all of it," Jim said so softly that McCoy almost missed the words.

McCoy held himself still and waited.

"I think _he_ liked what _he_ was doing … liked that I had to watch." Jim stared blankly away from McCoy. "Liked licking the blood from me. It…excited _him_."

Christ! With an effort, McCoy kept his expression calm as the reality of what Jim was saying became clear. He had his own nightmarish image of Jim bolted to the floor, naked and vulnerable, bleeding and some alien licking his flesh clean.

"That's why there were so many cuts," Jim continued, speaking without expression, as if in a trance. His gaze was light-years away.

So. It had been intimate and invasive …. McCoy felt nausea rising and swallowed it down. This hadn't been about interrogation to determine Starfleet's motives or territorial rights. It had been about pleasure. He'd known of other cultures that used blood as part of their rituals and superstitions. Jim hadn't said whether the other Away Team members had experienced the same treatment. Had Jim been seen as the strong one? Was it possible that consuming his blood had been part of some alien ritual to take his strength?

"I'm sorry, Jim." He waited a moment for a response. When none came, he asked, "Is that the memory you were resisting remembering today?"

Jim didn't move. Didn't look at him. But McCoy saw pain wash across his friend's face. A pain that went beyond anything he could heal with a hypo.

"I fight it every day," he said softly. "No matter what I do, I can't erase the…the feel of _his_ tongue…."

"Maybe you should stop trying," McCoy said gently.

Jim slowly turned his head to look at him.

"Jim, the amount of energy it takes to suppress something like this is enormous. You keep pushing it away and it keeps coming back – more powerful and intrusive. Reprocessing and integrating these memories will give them less power."

The pained expression was quickly shifting into disappointment…and anger.

"I'm not just spouting medical pyscho-babble. You're angry about what happened, and you have every right to be. Nobody is saying you shouldn't be angry." McCoy paused for a breath, uncertain if he wanted to continue, but he knew Jim needed to hear it. He chose his next words carefully. "Having an alien feed on you while you are powerless to stop—"

"—I'm not angry about that!" Jim interrupted, his face flushed with rage.

McCoy paused and studied Jim intently. He'd hit a nerve and he wasn't sure how Jim was going to react – withdraw, shutdown, or punch him. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "I think maybe you are. Maybe more than you're willing to admit."

"What do you want to hear, Bones?" Jim's tone was incredulous with outrage. "That I watched them all die? That every time _he_ cut into me, I waited for death to come? That _he_ put _his _fucking tongue _everywhere_ and I couldn't stop _him_? I couldn't stop _him_…and then I just wanted to die. Because, if I died, it would finally stop." Jim looked at him, his eyes wet and misery-filled. "Is that what you want to hear?"

* * *

Hours later, exhausted, McCoy sat at the counter, taking a moment to decompress. Rubbing the burning tiredness from his eyes, he glanced over to Jim who was sleeping restlessly. Jim was flat on his back under a light blanket because he'd been too tired to wrestle him under the covers. The IV he'd had delivered from Medical had finished an hour earlier. Jim had slept through that, as well. His body had simply hit its limits and succumbed to Jim's profound exhaustion. McCoy hadn't even needed to give him a sedative, and Jim had refused any type of analgesic. Jim's hand – while slightly swollen and painful – was not seriously injured. McCoy had applied an ice pack instead and said nothing further. Jim had laid silently on the bed until he fell asleep.

Now McCoy contemplated what to put in his report. The IV solutions he'd ordered had been charted into Jim's record as 'necessary supplemental care', because, Christ, if he'd recorded that Jim had all but put his hand through a wall, Tacci, his psychiatrist would be notified. He didn't care for the woman, however competent she was, but he'd been careful to mask his feelings when they'd met three days ago.

"_Is he always this guarded?" _

_McCoy sat in the small sitting area of Dr. Tacci's office. She'd asked for this meeting and had framed it more as two medical doctors conferring about a mutual patient, but it felt more like a fishing expedition. "He doesn't trust doctors very easily."_

"_And yet the two of you are friends. That's an interesting relationship."_

"_It doesn't get in the way of my responsibilities." He made certain there was no edge to his tone, no defensiveness. _

"_I would say it helps. He's learned not to trust others for his survival, and yet he puts his trust in his crew."_

"_A mark of a strong and capable leader. Jim makes assessments very quickly. He excels at tactics. He's usually two steps ahead of everyone else on the Command team." And then, because he wanted her to remember, he said deliberately, "It's how he saved Earth from the Romulans."_

_Her face remained pleasant. "I have his full psych profile, Leonard. Admiral Pike recruited him because of that ability to be two steps ahead of everyone else. He's not afraid to take risks. His ability to command, to execute his duties as a Starship Captain are not in question."_

"_Then, with all due respect, ma'am, what's this all about? Are you clearing Captain Kirk or not?"_

She was clearing him. The findings had come in just yesterday, and both he and Jim had breathed a sigh of relief – but for different reasons. Tacci had noted that the CMO would want to continue monitoring as needed and had recommended ongoing therapy at the discretion of the patient. But, bottom line, Jim's status as captain of the _Enterprise_ was no longer in doubt. Even Pike had come to visit him yesterday, relieved at the news. As if the decision from psych was a magic wand that erased the hell of the past thirty some days.

Typical military shit-heads.

McCoy walked over to the bed. Jim looked surprisingly peaceful, his restlessness finally appeased. The swelling in his hand had resolved and, in another day, the back brace would be removed. Jim would soon be allowed back on limited duty, but this incident could derail that plan. McCoy closed his eyes, Jim's hoarse voice still echoing….

"_That _he_ put his __fucking tongue__everywhere__ and I couldn't stop _him_?"_

Jim's words had been a punch in the gut. How had his missed it? Jim had been so badly injured, the clinical findings clearly indicating significant physical torture over a long period of time, that he hadn't dwelt on the emotional damage while he fought to keep Jim alive. McCoy struggled with the images Jim had spoken of. He could only imagine how Jim felt about the more intimate horrors inflicted upon him during his captivity, the sensations and emotions he had endured as an alien deliberately cut him again and again in order to lick Jim's body clean of blood.

They had to talk about what happened – or the memory would eat Jim alive – and he knew that Jim would rather eat glass than put it into words. But he was CMO of the _Enterprise,_ and that made Jim's emotional and physical well-being his primary responsibility. No physician who had seen what he'd seen in Jim's apartment would clear Jim for duty. With a sigh, he notified his staff that he wouldn't be coming into the Medical Center today, but was available via comm, if needed. He and Jim needed to talk.

* * *

Kirk woke with a dull ache in his head and a faint throbbing in his hand. The mattress was soft and welcoming beneath him and he was warm beneath the blanket that covered him. For a long moment, he enjoyed the peace of waking without a nightmare, or shaking from a memory that had slipped free from his subconscious. The sound of a glass being set down startled him back into reality. Without moving, he opened his eyes. He was curled on his side – as much as the brace would allow – and he had a limited view of the apartment windows. The light filters were in place, casting the room in a soft shade of gray. McCoy's doing, no doubt, to ensure he slept without being disturbed by too much daylight. He looked down at his hand, resting under a small ice pack. The memory of slamming his hand into the wall flashed into his mind.

Shit.

He closed his eyes and flexed his hand experimentally. The stiff fingers moved with little pain and he was relieved to discovered that apparently, he hadn't damaged the already healing hand too badly.

The sound of movement behind him informed him that someone – likely Bones – was moving around. Reluctantly opening his eyes, he moved his hand from beneath the ice pack and carefully sat up, feeling the pull of stiff and aching muscles. The movement behind him stopped and he could practically feel Bones' eyes boring into him. With his good hand, he pulled the blanket aside and swung his feet to the floor.

Bones stood next to the kitchen counter where he'd obviously been working, his full attention on Jim. He didn't look angry any more, just observant, clinical.

Jim flexed his hand, working the stiffness out of the fingers.

"You should keep the pack on," Bones said quietly. "It'll keep the swelling from reoccurring."

He nodded and slowly stood. A brief wave of dizziness made him pause before he felt safe enough to walk the short distance to the bathroom. When he was done, he returned to the bed and grabbed the ice pack. His hand really didn't hurt much, but he needed to buy some goodwill with Bones, demonstrate some modicum of cooperation. Bones' composure and soft congenial tone made him uneasy.

He made his way to the living area. In the soft lighting, the room felt welcoming and calm. He sat in the chair just as Bones entered, carrying a plate.

"You need to eat something," was all Bones said as he handed it to him.

It was eggs. Not real eggs. They'd stopped selling those decades ago. The last time he'd had real eggs, he'd been on the farm. He wondered where that memory had come from. His right hand was useless for handling a fork. So, he had to set the plate on his knees and use his left hand to eat. He ate in silence as Bones took a seat on the opposite chair and drank coffee, watching him with an unreadable expression. Jim knew the look, knew Bones was chewing on something, plotting, waiting him out. There was no medical kit out, so Bones wasn't worried about him relapsing or collapsing or anything. That meant he wanted to talk. Well, fuck that. He'd talked himself out over the past six days and he had a debriefing at Command tomorrow. There was nothing more to say, anyway. He refused to think about his earlier outburst, stubbornly ignoring the memory of his loose tongue voicing the very thoughts he worked so hard to contain.

They stared at each other as Jim finished the eggs. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. The replicated eggs tasted like ambrosia. He swallowed the last bite and set the plate on the table between them. Bones gave him an approving little nod, then spoke.

"We need to talk."

"I don't want to talk about it. Not now."

"I'm not asking, Jim." McCoy's tone left no room for argument. His mouth was set, and he pinned Jim with a somber gaze.

Kirk knew from experience that Bones could be unbending. He'd met that uncompromising force more than once, and it always seemed to be around Bones' duty as a doctor. They'd had it out more than once in the past year onboard the _Enterprise_. When it came to the health of the crew, he was unrelenting and stubborn as hell. When it came to Jim's health, he was downright possessive.

"I passed my psych assessment, Bones. It's over. Case closed."

"And I can open it."

He paled at that. Bones wouldn't – but he could, because Bones had a degree in fucking psychiatry, along with all his other specialties, and that made him eminently qualified as CMO. He scowled, setting his jaw.

"You damn near put your hand through the wall. You're not eating or sleeping. This situation is far from closed."

"There's nothing to say."

Bones continued his unrelenting stare.

"Leave it, Bones. I had a bad day. That's all."

"That's not all. Don't bullshit me, Jim." Pause. "Did preparing your report trigger this?"

Of course, Bones saw the report. He'd left the damn terminal on. He looked away from Bones to the covered windows. It was late afternoon and the sun was descending on the horizon. He could see the hazy outlines of the fiery orb despite the filters in place. He hated the view of the ocean and sky, the horizon and landmarks that tied him to the Earth. The sun never set in space, and time seemed fluid and unmarked there. It was a glorious kind of freedom and he missed it.

Bones took a breath and leaned forward, his arms relaxed and resting his arms on his knees. "Talk to me, Jim. Because I'm not letting you go to that debriefing until you do."

He snapped his gaze back to McCoy. The doctor could be a real bastard when he wanted to be. "I don't need your permission."

Which was not strictly true.

"You will if I file a report on this," McCoy said flatly.

For a long time, they stared at each other, neither compromising. Jim was the first to look away.

"This isn't a reflection on your command ability," Bones said quietly.

"Isn't it?" The words were out before he could stop them. He didn't look at Bones. "I'm the youngest Starship Captain in Starfleet history, Bones. I was suspended for cheating. It was dumb luck that Nero showed up. If I hadn't saved Earth …."

"You think they gave you _Enterprise_ as some kind of reward?"

"Didn't they?" He looked at Bones, who was scowling at him.

"They gave you a medal for that, you idiot. Not even Starfleet would do something so stupid. No, they wouldn't have given you command of the new flagship if they didn't think you were qualified. They aren't going to take _Enterprise_ away from you, Jim. No one is looking at you like you're broken."

But that's the way he felt. Broken.

Silence.

"You're not the first, you know," Bones said. "You've read enough history to know that."

"Don't tell me, Bones … don't tell me even strong men are fallible." He put his head in his heads, as if it were suddenly too heavy to hold up on its own.

"I'm not going to tell you anything you already know. Jim … if you weren't affected by this I would be worried."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"I know your body better than anyone. Even you. I've seen you so drunk you can't stand, in the kind of pain that would have brought any other man to his knees, and I've seen you coldly calm in the middle of a bar fight. But I've never seen you so overwhelmed that you punch a wall to get away from your feelings."

He'd never punched a wall before. All those years living with that asshole, Frank, being in Juvi…Tarsus IV…. He'd endured a lot – given as much as he got usually – but he'd always done so under his own terms. Bones was right. He'd never lost control before.

"It wasn't my feelings," he insisted softly.

"Memories are feelings, Jim."

He stayed with his head in his hands, eyes closed.

"Jim –"

"I'm tired."

Sigh. "I know you are. I know you've been through hell. But there's something you're not telling me. Something you don't want to see, and I think it surfaced today and ripped a hole in your gut."

Bones wasn't going to let up, and Jim was bone-tired. His hands were going numb, so he lifted his head and let them drop to get the circulation going again. Bones was watching him closely, a compassionate look softening his hazel eyes. In that moment, Jim saw his friend – the man he'd gotten drunk with, who'd been his confessor and confidant, his doctor, and his co-conspirator. The man who'd risked his career to sneak Jim on board _Enterprise_ after he'd been suspended.

"_I couldn't leave you standing there looking all pathetic."_

Maybe it was the dimness of the room, with its softly obscuring shadows, maybe it was his exhaustion, or maybe he just finally needed to tell someone, that allowed him to speak. The words welled up from the foul darkness, coating his tongue and leaving a nasty taste behind, but he was helpless to stop them…

When _he'd_ put his tongue between his legs and probed, his body had responded. He'd felt the familiar tightness as blood rushed to his cock in response to the stimulus. He had tried to resist, had focused on the dark ceiling, the pain in his back and hands. But his cock had swelled despite his desperate intentions, as the wet tongue pushed with lusty eagerness, finding the spot that caused Jim to gasp in spite of the pain he had tried to focus on. The grin on _his _face and the equal response from _his_ body told Jim that _he_ knew exactly what _he_ was doing. Grinding his teeth together, he had pulled on the bolts until the pain blinded him. Sometimes it worked, and his cock would go soft. But sometimes … sometimes _he'd_ hit the spot just right, would be persistent and skilled and Jim would feel the explosion of release that had nothing to do with pleasure. Jim hated himself for it. For allowing _him_ to win.

When he finished, he sat back in the chair, head hurting, feeling empty. McCoy had sat silently while he spoke, and he could see the doctor still sitting quietly, seeming to listen as intently to the silence as he had to Jim's confession. Bones didn't look angry, or shocked, or disgusted. He looked…compassionate.

Without saying a word, Bones stood and went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of juice. "Drink."

Bones held the glass and he drank, because his hands were still numb. Setting the empty glass aside, Bones returned to his chair.

"I know you don't want to hear this, but I'm going to say it anyway," Bones said. "Your body was reacting the way it's designed to do. You had a physiological response to a stimulus. Ejaculation during a sexual assault isn't uncommon in males. And it has nothing to do with pleasure. Or consent."

Jim wearily leaned his head back against the chair cushion and stared at the ceiling.

"You've got nothing to feel guilty about. You survived, Jim. Don't let the memory of what happened destroy you."

After a while, he asked, "Are you going to … report this?"

"I don't think Starfleet needs to know all the details, Jim. That might change if there is ever another attempt to make contact with the Boraith, but since that's not going to happen anytime soon, I think it's moot for now. But I want you to promise me something."

"What?" He closed his eyes. The last of his strength was draining away. Yet, somehow, he felt lighter despite his fatigue.

"Next time this memory comes up, you come talk to me. Deal?"

He opened his eyes and tilted his head to see Bones. His friend. His doctor. He had always been able to talk with Bones. Something he'd forgotten in the aftermath of Boraith. "Deal."


	5. Chapter 5

**Rescued**

** Day Twenty-Eight**

Jim woke with a strangled cry of rage, heart pounding, arms flailing, trying to push _him_ away. The foul touch of the nightmare lingered on his skin, chafing, making him feel itchy and disoriented. He thrashed to full awareness, cold sweat trickling down his neck as he slowly oriented himself, praying for the last of the nightmare to fade. He lay back beneath the rumpled bedding, trembling uncontrollably. He hated the way the nightmare made him feel, like he was back there again, helpless and impotent. One dream. One dream and he was transported back there, all the therapy and work he had struggled through for nothing. One dream and he unraveled into a dismantled mess.

Lights burned dimly in the apartment because he still wasn't able to sleep in total darkness. For days on Boraith, he'd lain on the cold metal surface in complete blackness, desperately wishing for the comfort of the faintest of shadows to chase away the dark.

He could hear Bones' voice in his head. "Inhale slowly and deeply through your nose, Jim, for a five count. Now exhale through your mouth for a five count. " Bones had breathed along with him, patiently guiding him. The technique was supposed to help control the shaking the nightmares left in their wake, lower his heartrate, orient him more quickly to reality.

He put a trembling hand to his forehead, wet with sweat, and forced a few deep breaths.

_Fuck._

It never worked. Kicking at the covers, he violently untangled himself and lurched out of bed, as if the bed itself had been the cause of his pain and self-disgust. It wasn't the first nightmare he'd had since returning, but he always hoped it would be his last.

"Give it time," Bones had said only a week ago when he'd witnessed Jim waking from the throes of his dream.

It had been one of the bad episodes. Bones had said he couldn't seem to completely wake him up. In a last resort, he had wrapped him in a comforting embrace and, placing his lips close to Jim's ear, had crooned a litany of reassurance and encouragement, as he tried to pull him back from the darkness he'd sunken into. Then, like now, he'd been shaking uncontrollably, covered with sweat as a choked sob had escaped his bitten lips, because, _fuck_, he didn't want to go back and keep reliving what _he'd_ done. Bones had held him until he had stopped shaking.

When would the nightmares stop?

"_Your body is healing and that means your mind is starting to focus on other things."_

Other things. It was better during the day. He could consciously block the memories. Which was why, Bones had informed him, he was having nightmares.

"_Your mind is struggling to integrate your emotions with what your body experienced, kid. This isn't something you put on the shelf and take down when it's convenient and safe to handle it. Or pretend it didn't happen."_

As if he could forget even if he wanted to. Bones had recommended hypnotherapy to reduce his cortisol levels and reprogram his neurons. The 'you've got to be fucking kidding me' glare he'd bestowed on Bones hadn't won him any points. Nor had his argument that this wasn't the first trauma he'd experienced in his life and he'd never had to reprogram anything.

"Try it," was all Bones had said, his voice matter of fact.

Desperation lead him to do just that. The technique was simple and only required Jim's cooperation. The hypnotherapy device was no bigger than the insignia clipped to his uniform. Once it had been calibrated to his brainwaves, the tech had easily slipped it into place at his temples and then all he had to do was sit still and relaxed for a few hours. While it felt as if he'd done nothing, the result of the therapy was surprising. He found himself more relaxed and focused, able to get back to some normalcy in his routine without the constant interruption of the anxiety attacks the memories brought.

But it wasn't helping with the nightmares.

Walking into the living area, the lights in the apartment sensed his motion and brightened. Frowning, he ordered them back to the previous level and dropped into a chair. It was 02:11 and the city outside his windows was awash in soft lights. He wondered how many other people were awake, and if so, were they just getting in from a night out, their bodies still vibrating with an adrenaline high? In the past, it hadn't been unusual for him to come home after two a.m., grab a few hours of shut-eye, and then return to the ship. Because what else does a starship captain do when his ship is in dock and his crew scattered? A sudden impulse to call Bones had him reaching for his communicator before commonsense reasserted itself. He could just imagine how well that conversation would go.

Hey, Bones, just calling to see what you're doing… at two o'clock in the morning. No, nothing's wrong. No, don't get up. I'm sorry I woke you.

Fuck it. He released a pent-up breath. Bones would be loading the hypo before he finished the call. It was a hard-won achievement, but thanks to Bones, he was more cooperative than he usually managed to be, keeping his therapy appointments and following doctor's orders. Getting the debriefing and psych eval behind them had helped, too.

The debriefing had gone well. He'd been prepared and calm. The Admirals had read his official report and he'd confidently answered the questions directed at him. After an in-depth debriefing, Starfleet had made the decision to put buoy markers around the planet, warning Federation citizens not to approach and forbidding Starfleet ships from entering orbit or contacting the inhabitants. Jim walked out of the briefing both relieved and pissed.

"_That's it?" he asked Pike, but it sounded more like a demand. He'd lost four good crewmembers to Boraith, failed to complete his mission, gathered next to nothing in intelligence, and Starfleet had decided to just close the books on it. Lesson learned. "We just close contact?"_

_Pike looked at him critically. "I think that's appropriate and advisable. Boraith isn't ready to contact. It might never be ready." He paused then as he studied Jim. "You did good, Jim."_

"_I lost four crewmembers, Admiral."_

_Pike tilted his head. "There's always risk to space exploration. Every crewmember understands the danger of serving in Starfleet."_

Jim leaned his head back against the cushions and stared up at the featureless white ceiling. What a crock of shit.

**Day Thirty-Five**

Kirk paced in front of the windows of his apartment, still feeling restless despite having been out for a walk in the early dawn. He'd discovered a love of the ocean since joining Starfleet and breathing in the cool mist from the bay was always a welcome balm. Iowa raised, the only oceans he'd been accustomed to had been made of wheat. As a kid, he'd climb a tree and watch the wind blow waves across the golden sea of grain. And imagine himself some place far away. He hadn't been back since the day Pike had dared him to enlist. Iowa had never felt like home anyway. Neither did San Francisco, but Starfleet was as close as he was willing to concede to a home on Earth.

The little voice in the back of his head – the one that always seemed to sound like Bones – kept saying, _stop pacing._ He hadn't slept well, managing only a few hours of peaceful sleep, but he still couldn't settle, despite his fatigue. A dull ache was spreading across his lower back, a warning that he'd overdone it with the walk and should get off his feet and rest. He knew he needed to take a break, but he felt more like a predator that had been caged than a Starfleet officer on leave.

He no longer needed to wear the brace and, normally, his back barely ached, despite the therapy Bones insisted he continue. No longer confined to his apartment, he'd taken full advantage of his freedom and had escaped as often as possible, even visiting the ship a few times. While not officially released for duty, he involved himself in dock-side protocols and routinely touched based with the quartermaster and Scotty. They would be pulling out soon on their first mission since Boraith. Pike was giving them a shuttle run— ferrying ambassadors and politicians. Not exactly a top-notch assignment, and beneath the caliber of _Enterprise,_ but he was grateful to be taking her out again at all. Even if that wasn't how he had presented it to Pike.

"_A shuttle run?" He looked at his commanding officer, his recruiter and mentor, and tried not to bristle. It was their first, private official meeting since Jim had returned to Earth, but it was starting to feel more like a gracious __gesture than a mission briefing__. "I can handle something more challenging than that."_

_They were sitting on the sofa in Pike's office, the sun filtering through the large windows that overlooked central campus, Daystrom, Starfleet Headquarters. and, in the distance, the misty blue of the bay. _

"_I don't doubt it. But Enterprise is the premier flag ship, Jim," Pike explained. "And ambassadors – while difficult and tedious – are important and necessary to the Federation's peacekeeping mandate."_

_Jim moistened his lips and took a moment before he spoke. "I'm fine, sir. I've been cleared."_

"_You haven't; not completely. But that's not what this is about. We don't get to pick our assignments, Captain. We follow orders and we go where we are needed."_

But Jim wasn't so sure this wasn't about his readiness to command again. He felt as though Starfleet had him on a short leash, treating him with kid gloves. Or worse, the brass were reluctant to let him go out again.

"Enjoy the remainder of your downtime while you've got it, Jim," Pike had said. "Rest."

Fuck resting. If one more person told him to rest…. Resting wasn't the problem. Sleeping was. He'd come to hate his bed. Even if he managed to exhaust his body enough to sleep, the damn nightmares would creep in and squeeze him to the core, choking the last peace from him. And the thing was, there was no pattern to them. When he expected them, he'd sleep through the night. But then, when he dozed on the sofa there would it be, rising from the depths to strangle him during a twenty-minute nap. He didn't even remember all of them, but the fear and rage he woke with was enough.

Which was why he was pacing even though his body told him to stop.

The door chime sounded, interrupting his thoughts. Frowning, he walked to the door. It was 07:45. Bones had promised not to visit before noon and he'd had no other visitors during his convalescence.

The doors slid open at his terse command.

"Spock."

Spock stood just outside the door, straight-backed, but relaxed, impeccably dressed in civilian attire.

"I didn't realize you were back. Come in," Kirk said, stepping aside. He'd never seen Spock out of uniform. Even on shore leave, the Vulcan was in uniform, always on duty.

"Thank you, Captain. I apologize for the early hour."

The title made him wince. It was always captain, never Jim. He moved into the living area. "It's not a problem. I've been up for a while. When did you dock?"

Pike had told him Spock was due to return in the next few days. He wondered if the return date had been pushed up. Was _Enterprise_ leaving sooner than he thought?

"Last night, at twenty-one hundred hours."

He felt Spock studying him and tried not to squirm under the scrutiny. Forcing himself to relax, he smiled reassuringly and let Spock take a good look. The last time Spock had seen him, he had been on _Enterprise_ in critical condition. And before that… He didn't want to finish the thought. He didn't remember being rescued but knew how he must have looked – naked, bleeding and utterly broken.

"It's good to see you," he said.

"I am pleased to see you looking well and your recovery progressing," Spock said. "Doctor McCoy has informed me that you will be returning to duty soon."

Really? Bones hadn't said that to him.

"Have a seat. Tell me about Denebia."

Spock raised a single eyebrow as he took a seat. "What would you like to know?"

Jim smiled. "That was a conversation starter, Spock."

Spock stared blankly at him, and he found himself shifting uncomfortably on the small sofa. Why was it so hard to get out of their respective roles and have a conversation that wasn't about the ship? They didn't spend much off-duty time together, aside from the occasional chess game in the rec room. Private conversations were limited to ship's business. He'd never even been in Spock's quarters, nor Spock in his, despite both having offices there. As for off ship… this was the first time Spock had been at Jim's apartment. The unexpected visit made him uneasy.

"I'm glad you're back," he said, then paused before adding, "I've missed you."

Spock didn't seem to know what to do with that information. He made a motion as if to speak, abandoned the attempt, and bowed his head slightly. "It is good to be back."

_I cannot deprive you of a friendship that will define you._ Old Spock had told him of the conversation he'd had with his counterpart, encouraged him to be patient with his younger self. But Jim couldn't help but think that the other Spock had gotten it all wrong, that in this timeline, they were never going to be friends.

"We have new orders." Jim filled in the silence by rattling off their latest orders, talking about the ship's readiness, discussing when to recall the crew. Business. When they were done, the silence fell again, thick and heavy, sucking the air out of the room. Jim moved uneasily in the chair. His back was aching, and he began to feel the weight of fatigue seep in. Sitting down had been a mistake. "Can I get you something to drink? Tea?"

"No. Thank you."

Silence.

Jim took a measured breath. Time to address the elephant in the room. "Spock … I … thank you."

Spock tilted his head inquisitively.

God, this was more difficult than he'd thought it would be. "For coming back for me." _For disobeying orders, for risking your life and your career, and—_

"There is no need for thanks, Captain. It was, and continues to be, my duty."

"Bullshit." His irritation showed. How difficult was it to get a simple "you are welcome" out of the man? "Your duty is to follow orders, and your orders were to wait." He'd read the full report, reprimand and all.

Archer had had a few things to say about Spock's 'duty'.

"_Commander Spock's record is … was untarnished. Six months under your command and he's broken three Starfleet regulations." Archer stared hard at him. "You're a bad influence."_

Or maybe he just instilled loyalty in people. That had been Bones' response, when he'd told him about the conversation with Archer.

Spock stared at him, soberly, his mien non-judgmental and dispassionate. Jim slumped in the chair as exhaustion pulled at him. He needed to keep moving, but it felt rude to get up while Spock… what? Spock seemed content to just sit and observe, and he wanted Spock to know, to understand, how much coming back for him had meant. Had it really only been routine duty to Spock, as he'd claimed?

"There are other factors that can influence, even supplant, Starfleet's orders when it comes to definitions of duty, Captain. A Vulcan's sworn loyalty is one such factor."

Well, that was something.

"Still… whatever the reason, thank you, Spock. You saved my life."

"I rescued you. Doctor McCoy saved your life."

Jim ducked his head, staring down at his clenched hands. He swallowed hard, as a suppressed, painful laugh died in his throat. "Okay, Spock." He ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling very tired.

"I have fatigued you," Spock said, and stood in one smooth motion that Jim instantly envied. "I apologize for tiring you, Captain. It is apparent that you are still recovering and I allowed my visit to continue overlong."

Suddenly, he didn't want to be alone. Smiling, he said, "Don't worry about it, Spock. I'm not sleeping well anyway. Stay."

Spock hesitated, clearly torn, then took his seat again, straight-backed and formal. "May I ask what is disrupting your sleep, Captain? Perhaps Dr. McCoy could be of assistance."

Jim shook his head. "Bones has done everything he can." He forced a smile. "Human weaknesses, Spock. Too many unruly memories. Be glad you're Vulcan."

Spock looked impassive and unreadable, but when he spoke his voice was soft and understanding. "You are having difficulty with the events that occurred on Boraith."

Jim's mouth went dry and he briefly looked away, unsettled. "Some memories are more difficult than others to control."

"Yes."

Jim let his weary gaze meet Spock's. He found a strange comfort in Spock's expressionless face. Did Vulcans have nightmares? Did Spock dream of his mother's death? When he'd melded with the other Spock, he'd been shaken by the pain the older Spock had felt as he'd watched Vulcan be destroyed.

"_So, you do feel," he'd said, as he'd reeled from the emotions transferred to him via the mind-meld._

What was Spock feeling now?

His head began to throb with the familiar tell-tale signs of a migraine coming on. He pressed a hand to the back of his neck, trying to ease the growing pain. A faint tremble shook his arms. "It'll get better," he said. "Bones says time will help," though he didn't believe it.

"Nothing remains constant."

Jim mentally winced at that. Spock really wasn't equipped for offering comfort.

As if sensing his faux pas, Spock continued. "You have proven your ability to endure and triumph where other humans have not. I do not know of any other who could have returned from Delta Vega, as you did, to defeat an enemy that had all but annihilated Starfleet's armada."

Still rubbing his neck, Jim couldn't bring himself to look at Spock as he admitted, "I cheated."

"You altered the elements of your situation, quite resourcefully in fact, given that you had been banished without a ship… and, consequently, you saved Earth."

He'd gotten lucky. Plain and simple. A tightness constricted his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to mute the pain in his head and alleviate the sparkle of white that had appeared in his vision. "This is different, Spock. I can't alter my memories."

He couldn't cheat his way out of this.

Yielding to the growing pain in his head, he eased his body onto the sofa, curling into the cushions. "I just wish I could forget."

Spock sat silent and still, watching Kirk as he lay on the cushions of the sofa. He waited patiently until the human's breathing evened out and the tense muscles relaxed. Then he stood and walked over to Kirk. For a long time, he simply observed, listening to the sound of Kirk's breathing, watching his eyelids flicker from time to time, or his fingers twitch, all proof of the fragile life that lay before him. Jim Kirk had blazed into his life like a rogue comet. He had seemed brilliant, infallible, and indestructible, and yet, in truth, the young Captain was alarmingly vulnerable. In the short time he had known the human, nothing had dissuaded or defeated him.

The young cadet who had audaciously reprogrammed the Kobayashi Maru to prove a point, had then, when exposed, defended himself by declaring that he didn't believe in no-win scenarios. Subsequently, he had flawlessly demonstrated this belief by defeating Nero. Spock had spent many hours meditating on that, trying to understand the hidden logic in the human's seemingly irrational and illogical choices that had, in the end, proven to be the right decision. But no matter how many ways Spock examined the events that had led to Earth being saved, he couldn't find a single thread of logic in Kirk's choices.

"He's an enigma," Nyota had told him with a smile. "Stop trying to figure him out."

Spock's logical, well-thought out choices had only resulted in failure. It would have produced the destruction of the _Enterprise, the _death of Pike and the end of the Federation. And yet Spock had been right, according to Starfleet. He'd followed orders as he'd been trained to do.

When ordered to leave Kirk behind on Boraith, he'd relied on Vulcan discipline and logic, not his human emotions, to analyze the situation. He hadn't regretted it. He'd logically weighed the consequences of Starfleet's orders. Boraith was of no importance. The mission had failed and sacrificing Kirk's life was a waste. The fact that Starfleet had disciplined him with a punishing tour of duty to Denebia, rather than a demotion or court-martial, was evidence that Starfleet, too, had approved of his actions, if informally. And Pike had said as much.

"_They are glad that you did it, Spock," Pike said, "and behind closed doors, they're ecstatic the rescue was successful, but they can't let you know that they approve of you disobeying orders. It would set a bad example. This tour to Denobia will only be a couple of weeks and you'll back, literally and figuratively, in Starfleet's good graces. And it will give Jim a chance to recover before he sees you."_

Starfleet's response was illogical.

Resolute, he stood and walked to Kirk. The young human was undisciplined and rash, prone to excessive emotional responses, but he was also highly intelligent and as loyal as a Vulcan.

"_I could not deny you of a friendship that would define you both."_

Friendship.

Kirk jerked, then curled his body into the protective position he saw often in humans enduring pain or distress.

"_I missed you."_

Slowly, he bent down and carefully placed his fingers in the ancient positions of the mind-meld. Lightly touching the cool skin, he entered the complex mind with surprising ease. He found the memory Kirk struggled to resist.

"Forget."

THE END


End file.
